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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26089063">The Key of Solomon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/pseuds/qqueenofhades'>qqueenofhades</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adventure &amp; Romance, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Badass Nile, Banter, Denial of Feelings, Djinn Yusuf, Enemies to Lovers, Established Relationship, Found Family, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Medieval History, Mutual Pining, Political Intrigue, Ring of Solomon, Slow Burn, Urban Fantasy, Vampire Nicolo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:02:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>188,414</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26089063</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/pseuds/qqueenofhades</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jerusalem, 1104: Five years after the First Crusade has captured the city for Christendom, the uneasy new Latin Kingdom is divided by political intrigue both mortal and magical, especially when whispers arise that the fabled -- and terrifyingly powerful -- Ring of Solomon might have been found. While a horde of supernatural creatures compete and cut throats in their plans to retrieve it at all costs, a young human woman named Nile finds herself at the center of a dangerous, exciting, and magical adventure with a mysterious Italian vampire and a clever Egyptian djinn. As she discovers secrets she's never known and kingdoms she's never dreamed, Nile comes to realize that she -- and her companions -- may be the key to an age-old mystery, and part of something much larger than any of them can imagine.</p><p>(If only those two idiots could take their eyes off each other and stop arguing long enough to <i>help</i>.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nile Freeman &amp; Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Nile Freeman &amp; Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>244</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>271</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"I don't have a new plot bunny for these two," I said. "We'll see what happens after DVLA but who knows," I said. "Well, fic does tend to happen when I'm down a new rabbit hole," I said.</p><p>Welp.</p><p>Anyway, as promised, today is my birthday and here are the prologue and first ten chapters of the Vampire Nicolo/Djinn Yusuf AU. The next update will come at the end of part 1; part 2 will probably be done in two update batches, but I will let you know. This is the full-works historical/magical/slowburn/banter extravaganza that is my Brand with other OTPs, so just be prepared for a lot of frustration (I swear, it's not my fault).</p><p>Nicolo and Yusuf's general families/backstories are the ones that I established for them in my previous fic, deo volente (lux aeterna). I have, of course, made tweaks for the AU and particular story. </p><p>Have fun. I definitely did. Far too much of it. As per usual.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>Acquasanta, Italy, Holy Roman Empire</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>November 9, 1067</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>All the lamps in the village have gone out, the fog on the mountains is thick and soft and dense as sheep’s wool, and the night smells like something evil.</p><p>The church stands in the lee of the cliffs, close enough to hear the sigh and hiss as the water patters down the rocks. This place has been known since Roman times because of it: it’s sulfurous, believed to possess special healing properties, even if the taste of brimstone and hellfire lingers on the tongue when a thirsty traveler drinks it down. It’s a tributary of the river Leira, which flows out to the Ligurian Sea, unfurls beneath the hulls of the bright-sailed merchant galleys that rock at anchor in the fair city of Genoa, rises with the tide and brings wealth to her people. Genoa’s status as one of the most important ports in the Holy Roman Empire is only growing, and it is the water that makes it all possible. It turns the millwheels of the crofts along the river, the small village that lives here in the shadow of towering bare-knuckled mountains. They rise from the backbone of the world like some great giant that lay down to sleep and turned to stone, rough and bare and swept by winds that can howl like demons. Indeed, the temple that stands at the wellspring used to be pagan, and sang its praises to strange and ancient gods, to Jupiter and the Roma. It was destroyed in a long-ago flood, and a statue of the Madonna stands in its place, Her holy hands outstretched to bless the water and keep the demons away. Surely there can be nothing out there now.</p><p>Nonetheless, as he moves around the dim church, removing the ciborium containing the Host from the altar and returning it to the cupboard where the presence-lamp burns, Nicolò di Genova cannot quite shake the odd, cold feeling, as if there is a draught blowing through the church and fixed on him like twin spots of ice. He glances over his shoulder sharply, as if to surprise something creeping out of the night, then reminds himself that a church is a sanctuary under both human and divine law. In here, so long as he stays within these four walls, he is safe. He has to be. He has wagered a great deal on it.</p><p>Nicolò crosses himself and sets the Host down. Then he pulls out a stack of fresh beeswax candles – the widow Giovanna down by the bridge makes them, and is rather too eager to carry them up to the handsome young priest who arrived from the city six months ago, but he should not judge anyone for unusual or perverse attractions. And if he was inclined, it would not be unthinkable for him to marry her (or to do other things with her). Despite the best efforts of the Cluniac Reforms, originating from the great abbey of Cluny in French Burgundy and sweeping across Europe, the rule forbidding it is not yet universal nor indeed, very popular. The Cluniacs insist that clergy must be unmarried and celibate, undistracted with the temptations of wife and fleshly pleasures and family, if they are to properly serve Jesus Christ. If you ask Nicolò, the Cluniacs – who hire servants to labor in the fields rather than doing it themselves like Benedictines, and who live as well as any prince on the back of handsome donations from lordlings with guilty consciences, promising to pray their sins away – are in no position to lecture anybody about renunciation and austerity. But nobody has in fact asked one humble Genoese parish priest for his opinion, and he approves, in principle, of the celibacy idea anyway. At least it makes it readily apparent why he cannot marry a woman.</p><p>Nicolò glances sharply over his shoulder at a creak from the door. Then he tells himself that he is being ridiculous; he has been alone in the church many times at night, and has managed it without spooking at every shadow like an unbroken colt. Perhaps this is merely boredom. He is finding his posting to Acquasanta less… stimulating than he hoped. He surprised his family with the impulsive decision to take holy vows in the first place, and indeed he <em>should,</em> had he been smarter, have traveled south and entered the order at Monte Cassino, about twenty-five leagues southeast of Rome. It is the first and most important of all Benedictine abbeys, founded by Saint Benedict himself, patronized by popes and emperors, its abbot recognized as the head of all Christian abbots, connected to a vast and vibrant network of exchange. Of course, this has made it a target for periodic sackings by Lombards, Saracens, and other traveling nuisances, but Nicolò would not mind a little excitement. Instead he has stuck himself with an assignment to a tiny church in the middle of bloody nowhere, far from the stimulating and cosmopolitan life he enjoyed as a wealthy merchant’s second son in Genoa. That is doubtlessly the point. He must truly <em>renounce, </em>it must be obvious that he has given up the trappings and – indeed – temptations of a former sinful life, and his soul is cleansed for Christ. It all made sense at the time.</p><p>Nicolò shakes his head, straightens the missal on the pulpit (he must get a new copy from somewhere, this one’s Latin is abominable and full of errors), and looks around the church for anything else he can do. He will not have it said that he was a negligent shepherd to his flock, who number the fifty-odd villagers of Acquasanta and an almost limitless array of sheep, including one who wandered in last Sunday, shat all over the sacristy, and caused Nicolò to lose his place in the Canon, the holiest part of the Mass. He supposes grimly that sheep were, after all, beloved by Our Lord, but he could do without. Or at least –</p><p>There. Just again. The sense that something passed quickly by the windows, which are made of amber cut thin and polished to an almost translucent shine; the craft of working amber has been an Italian specialty since antiquity, and was commented upon by Pliny in his <em>Natural History</em>. Real glass is a rare and costly luxury far beyond their means, though some of the villagers have taken up a collection in hopes of tempting an artisan from Rome or Venice. Nicolò is, he cannot deny it, unnerved. He snatches up the pewter crucifix from the altar and holds it out. <em>“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti,” </em>he says, the common charm that is usually sufficient to banish demons (that or a recital of the <em>Pater noster). </em>“Leave me in peace!”</p><p>Silence, or at least it seems that way. God Almighty, he is being ridiculous. There are real enemies out there – Genoa is at war with Pisa over the control of Sardinia, the island from which in the past they successfully repulsed Andalusian raiders in the Tyrrhenian Sea. (It was likely the only time in history when Genoa and Pisa were not fighting each other instead.) Saracen-held Iberia is a hotbed for such seagoing heathen menaces; at least here in the Mediterranean, Italy is shielded from the ferocious Viking attacks in the North Sea, which have menaced England, France, and Flanders for centuries. But even a particularly grudge-holding gang of Pisans is unlikely to have tramped this far up in the hills to attack one tiny and insignificant countryside church. They would have stopped in Genoa, if they made it that far at all. So why does he have the feeling that something is waiting outside this church, waiting for him to open the door, let it in, and –</p><p><em>No. No, stop. </em>Nicolò can feel cold sweat beading on the back of his neck, and even worse, he’s not sure whether he wants to bar the door and call upon God to deliver him from evil, <em>libera nos a malo</em>, or he wants to fling it wide and welcome in the monsters. He always knew he was less than devoted to this calling, but he wanted to <em>try, </em>he wanted to give himself a chance to be better. He doesn’t know what it is exactly, whether it was guilt or regret or a desire for redemption. If his faith is often fear, if he kneels before the crucified Christ and feels deeply that he should have been the one scourged and mocked and crowned with thorns, nonetheless it is there. Not for any pretensions of feeling himself equal to the Savior, or even being selfless enough to die for humanity, but only because it seems just. For he is afraid, Nicolò di Genova. Both of the monsters outside the church, and the ones within his own soul. Perhaps he only wishes to battle the ones with which he can actually come to grips.</p><p>Another draught sweeps the church, and the freshly lighted candles flicker out. Whatever is out there seems both human and inhuman at once, some unholy alchemy of both. Perhaps, Nicolò thinks wildly, it is one of the dead men that are known to sometimes stray out of their graves. They return to the land of the living for varied reasons: to deliver a warning to their surviving relatives, to take them to a desolate wood and see an eldritch procession passing by in melancholy torment, to wander back into their houses and even try to lie in bed with their lost spouses. Their motives are not always evil, but simply by virtue of being dead, they cannot rejoin their community, can only cause shock and horror and revulsion, and they must be properly laid to rest. Usually they can be handled with a blessing and the conclusion of their unfinished business, but sometimes nothing will do but the use of force. In which case, the chroniclers advise, find several brawny young men armed with shovels and the devotion of the Lord. They will usually settle it from there.</p><p>Nicolò is notably short of a shovel, or indeed several brawny young men, but then again, he is not the most usual of priests. The door scrapes across the wooden floor, leaving a scarred track as if something is coming in, and the cross of Christ and the chanted prayers does not seem to be stopping it. He whirls on his heel, runs to the vestry, and digs out the sword that he keeps there, in violation of the stern ecclesiastical proscription against clerics bearing arms. Like his noble-born peers, Nicolò was trained from a young age, and he has only recently relinquished the weapons of the soldier for the armor of faith, the only proper one for the <em>militia Christi</em>. But perhaps this is the test, and he is failing it. When it comes down to it, he does not trust in blindly uttered prayers, cowering in the dark. He trusts in the strength of his arm and the edge of his blade. A poor cleric he makes, but – he prays – not a dead one.</p><p>The sword hisses from its scabbard as Nicolò draws it, the metal gleaming in the dying candlelight. He raises it before his face and stares around wildly for the advent of his enemy. It must be coming. It must be here.</p><p>The door to the church stands wide open, with no human hand ever touching it, not even his own. Only blackness waits beyond. Silence an instant longer. Almost lulled to think that this was all his imagination on a dark and lonely November night, Nicolò shakes himself. Glances around once more, lowers the blade, and then –</p><p>There’s a crash as the window over the altar shatters. It’s the only one made from glass – ashy lime rather than the expensive and decorative Roman glass, and the shards scatter like snow. Nicolò screams (he is glad that nobody is there to hear him) and swings at nothing. His blade parts air. He is still, to all intents and purposes, completely alone. Yet he is flooded with the utter conviction that he cannot stay in the church. He must flee from it, lest some hellmouth open and drag him down. He can dwell on the irony later. Then saddle his horse, ride without stopping all the way back to Genoa, and never set foot in the bloody haunted countryside ever again.</p><p>He stumbles as he crosses the threshold, almost falling, and has to avoid impaling himself on the sword, which is still in his hand. Then he is outside, out in the night, in the bitter wind whipping off the mountain, the pale bone-gleam of the stars and moon, and he thinks that he is safe, that it – whatever <em>It </em>is – has gone. Then something huge and swift and black and impossibly fast is diving on him like a viper, and in that moment, Nicolò understands the true folly of his mistake. He should never have left the church. That was the trick, the trap. Panic him, break the window, lure him outside the consecrated sanctuary, prove how eager he was to run all along. This beast cannot set foot inside, so it had to <em>tempt </em>him out, in the oldest fashion of the serpent in the garden, tantalizing Eve with the forbidden fruit. Just as Nicolò has time to wonder if he is Eve, if that is what results from the woe of joining with Adam, it is on him.</p><p>Even many years later, he will be unable to describe the experience clearly, or even remember it aside from flashes and scraps and half-formed images that settle neither as memories nor nightmares but something else, embedded in his soul and grown over with scar tissue. He tumbles to the ground, tackled by something that weighs a thousand tons and is horribly insubstantial all at once, the sword skidding uselessly from his fingers. He has a sense of oddly lovely eyes, of a deep-set and sentient and savage intelligence, of some unearthly beautiful human face – a man or a woman, he cannot be sure, he cannot see. Then the fangs sink deep into his neck and draw up his blood, and he screams.</p><p>Nicolò thrashes, fights for his life, punches and twists and strikes out as hard as he can, grabs for a rock and bashes at the horrible creature that is clamped onto his throat and draining him dry. He is weakening, the night popping in impossibly bright sparks, as his struggles lose their vigor and the rock falls free and his eyes roll back in his head. It is not stopping. It is drinking and drinking as if it could never be sated, it <em>must </em>be Satan or Lilith or some spawn of them both, some creature of the greater demons, and Nicolò di Genova can feel himself dying. Can feel blackness closing over his head, thicker and darker and deeper, and in the final moment before his consciousness snuffs out, while he is still <em>him </em>in the ransacked temple of his head, he is aware only of pure and perfect despair. Of course it has come to this, he thinks. Of course he has been tried and found wanting, has been punished for presuming that he could ever escape what he truly is. It was here, waiting for him, all along. It always was.</p><p>Cold sweeps over him. He jerks and kicks, a final, feeble struggle from a drowning man unable to surface for air, as his body instinctively resists its end. The beast is still crouched on top of him, drinking, <em>drinking. </em>Nicolò is cold as marble, pale, sapped, silent. He teeters on the brink.</p><p>He goes over. He falls.</p><p><em>In nomine Patris, </em>he thinks – for whatever good that has ever done him – and dies.</p><p>And yet – all at once, as if stripped even from the dubious peace of death, though he doubts whatever was waiting for him was peaceful, as he was killed near the sulfurous spring of Acquasanta and was expecting much more of that – he wakes.</p><p>For the longest time, for eternity, Nicolò lies there, staring up at the sky that curls up at the edges with dawn, like fire burning up parchment, and does not move. Even though he feels an odd revulsion at the prospect of the sun, knows that he must go away somewhere before it rises. He cannot move just yet, even though he is suffused with a strange and inexplicable vivacity. He has jarring, bloody memories of being attacked, drained, savaged, <em>dying. </em>He knows he did. He felt it. So why is he here?</p><p>His hand feels like lead, but it is still attached to his arm. Nicolò raises it to his throat, searching for evidence of the attack – surely he did not dream it? He finds two neat holes over his jugular, crusted and seeping, but closed. He is lying in the bracken where the beast must have left him; his robes are torn and his stole is gone, but he is otherwise intact. The forest is frowning and the wind is cold. There is snow coming in off the mountains, and he can sense the chill. But he does not shiver, though he should. It is – it was? – mid-November, almost Martinmas, which is the eleventh. He has been lying in the wilderness for hours – days? <em>Years?</em></p><p>Nicolò lurches upright, faster than he expected, faster than he ever has. Something is wrong with him, he can feel it at once. His balance, his speed, his reflexes are sharper than they have ever been. He can smell the roe deer in the hills, the small mammals that creep and crawl in the underbrush, the feathered fragile bodies of birds perched on branches above – that have suddenly gone silent when he rose to his feet. A cloud of them rise shrieking into the air, a single mass flying away to escape a predator – fleeing from the monster? Is it still here? Is it hiding behind some tree, waiting for him to wake up only to spring on him again?</p><p>Nicolò takes a step, then another. It is only then that he realizes his feet are bare, but he cannot feel the rocks and brambles underfoot. They should tear his flesh to shreds, but he can run across them as easily as if clad in the finest leather boots. Giovanna, he thinks dully, flailing to fish the name out of the murk of confusion and terror. The widow who makes the candles for the church, and is so fond of my company. Giovanna will help me.</p><p>The eastern sky is grey and rose and golden by the time Nicolò finally staggers down into the village, signs of life stirring behind closed shutters and a few fine wisps of smoke rising from chimneys, as people wake to begin their day. He can smell them as well, the vulnerable shapes of their bodies behind the flimsy protection of wood and stone, is suddenly aware that he could tear through it and snatch them out, a diving hawk on its prey. Then he shakes his head, utterly horrified. What is <em>wrong </em>with him?</p><p>There is a lamp lit behind Giovanna’s window, and he reaches the door and hammers on it, too terrified for caution. There is a sleepy murmur, a sound of confusion and alarm that perhaps something is wrong, they are being invaded, some army has stumbled across this tiny village where nothing else interesting has happened since they discovered the spring. Then the latch lifts, and Giovanna, squinting and tousled in her nightclothes, a shawl clutched over her shoulders and a candle in her hand, shocked, gaping, opens the door. “Father – Father Nicolò?”</p><p>“Help me,” he manages, his voice torn and raw in his throat. “Help me.”</p><p>She stares at him – there’s something in her face that has not been there before, not just attraction but fear. But the priest has come to her while clearly in desperate need, and it would be unchristian to refuse him. She steps aside. “Yes, yes. Come in.”</p><p>Nicolò feels oddly as if some charm has been worked, some barrier broken, and he lurches over the threshold. Giovanna has two children, sons, who are both still asleep, but she finds a blanket and hands it to him. “Father, what’s wrong?”</p><p>If only I knew, Nicolò thinks. The sunlight is coming up the wall, and he is solely conscious of his need to get away from it. He nods to her, makes a croaking noise of thanks, and stumbles down the stairs into the dark earthen coolness of the root cellar. He pulls the trapdoor shut after him, sealing off the harmful touch of the sun, and lies down in the corner like a cur, a dog banished from the master’s table. It smells of vegetables and earth and dried herbs, wood and lanolin and hemp, wax and honey and wine. He can pick out each scent perfectly, with a distinctness that unnerves him. Perhaps everything from that moment last night, when he first noticed something amiss in the church, is nothing but a bad dream.</p><p>Nicolò sleeps, or something like it. It is like no human rest he has had before, for he does not dream and does not stir and is in fact aware of nothing at all until, with that same wrenching abruptness, he is awake again. He can sense that the sun is gone, so it must be evening. He is starving with a savagery that tears through his guts. He needs to eat, he will die without eating, and it rips through him with a ferocity he can barely control. He is a man, not a beast, not a rude slave to his baser appetites. But God, it <em>burns.</em></p><p>He rolls over, hits something with his hand, and discovers that Giovanna has left a trencher with an apple from the orchard, some cheese, dried meat, and a cup of wine. Nicolò sits upright and gobbles it down, but no sooner has he swallowed it than he vomits it up. It tastes foul somehow, spoiled and dusty, and even as he retches a final time and spits it – still barely distinguishable from when it went down, he couldn’t digest it – he stares at it in utter horror. Why is he so hungry, and yet unable to eat? What is – what does he <em>want?</em></p><p>His terror is drumming through his head, wild and ravenous, until there is space for nothing else inside him. He breathes deeply – suddenly aware that until now, he has not been. This seems even more wrong, for surely a man cannot live without breath, which God blew into Adam when He first sculpted him from Eden’s clay. He is trapped here, penned in the darkness, shut in a cage, when he should be running in the night, wild and free and fearless. The moon calls to him as if from Diana’s hunt, the lost effigies of those pagan gods, the flood that swept the temple away. Outside. Outside. Run. Run. <em>Run.</em></p><p>Nicolò blunders to his feet, and is about to cross the cellar, when the trapdoor opens and feet descend the hard-packed steps. “Father Nicolò?” It is the elder of Giovanna’s two sons, Filippo. “Father Nicolò, are you down here? Mama said that I was to come and check on you.”</p><p>Something sears through Nicolò to the floor, and all at once, the only thing he is aware of, the only sensation anywhere, is the warm crimson nearness of Filippo’s blood. It runs so near, so fragile, beneath the fine surface of his skin, beating in time to his heart, and it would take only the briefest of tears to free it. Nicolò is half to his feet before he realizes what he’s doing, tensed as if to spring – what is this, what is he, is he about to give into all his worst temptations at once, the blackest parts of him? “Filippo,” he manages. “Filippo, run. Get away from me. Run.”</p><p>“Father Nicolò?” The boy gawks at him, blinks, does not – <em>fool, fool, FOOL – </em>does not move. “What are you talking about? What – what’s wrong with your eyes?”</p><p>Nicolò has no idea what’s wrong with his eyes, more than what is already wrong with the rest of him. If Filippo doesn’t run, he doesn’t know if he will be able to contain himself, and he rocks back on his heels, looking around for something to control, to check, to punish. Evidently he moves too fast. The boy backs up, fear crossing his face, though what this does to his blood is even sweeter, singing the siren song of the chase and the hunt, the culmination and completion, the downfall and destruction. He stumbles over his feet. “Father, you’re scaring me.”</p><p>Nicolò can feel something pressing against his lip, a sharp tip – two of them, in fact, and tries to spit it out, before realizing that he cannot. They are in his mouth, they have grown from his teeth, two long curved canines like a wolf’s fangs – indeed, exactly like that. Filippo lets out a squawk of terror and flees up the stairs, and – horribly light and agile, as close as man can come to flying since Icarus fell from the sky with wax wings burning – Nicolò follows him.</p><p>In an instant he is in the main room of the house, Filippo is bawling for his mother, and Giovanna appears – and Nicolò sees disbelief and horror and revulsion cross her face. She stumbles back into her kitchen to snatch up a sharp-bladed knife, and somewhere in his wildly jumbled-up brain, he realizes that it is him. The corpse that does not know that it is dead and wanders back into the human realm to the woe and terror of its inhabitants, that must be blessed or forced back into its grave to lie quiet – it is <em>him.</em></p><p>Jesus <em>Christ, </em>what has happened to –</p><p>This is not the moment to ponder the question. Giovanna is screaming at him, her face that used to go soft with flirtation now twisted in terror, waving the knife and the candlestick at him, and Nicolò flinches from the nearness of the flame. He trips but does not fall, recollecting his balance with even more unnatural agility, springing toward the door and out into the night, as shouts begin to spread from the neighboring cottages. They have heard Giovanna screaming, must see Nicolò fleeing, have doubtless concluded that he forced himself into the house and tried to have his way with her, taking advantage of her fondness. That is not right, at least in the customary fashion, but there is still a sickly grain of truth. He knew he was a monster, even before this happened, and nonetheless he brought it to her door, into her house. She is only right to scream.</p><p>Nicolò runs as hard as he can, harder than he ever has in his life, leaping up boulders and the steep verge, through the trees and the bracken and up, up, up to the high cold reaches of the mountains, the jagged ridges from which you can see all the way back to Genoa on a clear day, away from Acquasanta and the villagers and the church, up, up, <em>up </em>until he can finally climb no higher. He collapses on the ground before the cool mouth of a cave, gasping and desperate, blinded by hunger, harrowed by need. There is probably not a living creature within a mile of him to any direction. They are likewise smart enough to run.</p><p>Nicolò lies there, staring at the black void of the sky, the stars that shine on him now just as they did however long ago that his life ended, and he almost prays for the beast to descend again. Make a proper end of it this time, put him out of his misery before the men and the shovels must be called to beat him to a bloody pulp. Something has gone terribly wrong. Something has trapped him between one state of being and another, between life and death. There is no scriptural passage that he knows of for this, nothing in the Gospel except for the moment where Christ entered Lazarus’ tomb and brought him out in his wrappings, dead but alive again. Lazarus was welcomed back by his sisters, was he not? Went home? But what happened to him after that? Did he still taste dust in the back of his throat, and remember the unbeing, the nothingness, every time he closed his eyes? Did he fear to sleep, lest this time, as it was originally meant to be, he did not wake again?</p><p>Nicolò does not, cannot know the answers. The theology of his situation presently escapes him, everything but the need. If the creatures will not come to him, he must go to them, and so he spends the rest of the night tracking, capturing, and killing one of the deer. Its eyes roll in terror, its delicate hooves splayed out beneath his hands, as he jerks its head back and tears into its neck with his new fangs. They are a truly impressive weapon of war. They slice the deer’s flesh and muscle and fine tawny fur at a stroke, as he spits it out and gulps down the blood that pulses into his mouth with every shuddering beat of its ceasing heart, earth-warm and gamey and wild as the night, iron and gold and copper against his tongue. No banquet that he ever ate in the high halls of consuls has ever tasted quite so fine.</p><p>Nicolò drains the deer dry, as its eyes turn glassy and staring and its body begins to stiffen in his hands, as he laps up the last drops and then, at last, sudden as the breaking of a storm, the thrall snaps. All at once he is himself again, and he sees what he is: a mad priest in a torn and filthy robe, hunted out of his own parish and village, kneeling in the mountains before a butchered animal that he has just killed with his bare hands and drunk down like the finest wine. Physically, he feels better than he ever has in his life. Mentally –</p><p>Nicolò crashes onto all fours, horrorstruck. He stares at the innocent creature, knows that it would be Filippo lying pale and bloodless on the rocks if Giovanna had not had the good sense to chase him away, that he can never return to Acquasanta again. Would those benevolent waters with their healing properties wash this poison out of him, make him into a man once more? Or is this an ailment beyond even their remedy?</p><p>Caterina, he thinks, seizing on his sister’s name, even as he remembers that perhaps he cannot even go near her, that he is cut off from the society of all humans until he gets this insanity under control. Caterina must be able to help him. If Lazarus was taken back by Mary and Martha, so too will Nicolò be welcomed by Caterina. She is studying at the <em>Schola Medica Salernitana,</em> the famed medical school in Salerno. It is a long journey from here, almost five hundred miles; it lies south of Naples, and the Normans who have been increasingly taking control of Sicily (last year they also acquired the throne of England under their ambitious and brilliant duke William the Bastard) are eyeing it for potential acquisition. But with whatever Nicolò is now, that might not be a problem. If he traveled by night and slept by day, in concealed groves or dark caves, he might be able to make even better time than he would on horseback. He has already run and hunted and climbed for hours tonight, and he barely feels fatigued at all.</p><p><em>What is wrong with me? </em>he asks again, as he lifts his bloodstained hands, dripping black in the night, and stares at them. It is not that he feels himself incapable of violence; indeed, perhaps he joined the church because he worried that he was capable of too much. It was supposed to save him from himself, even <em>before</em> this moment when he may need more saving than can possibly be imagined. He feels like something thrown off a high shelf, smashed on the floor and put back together only imperfectly, in cracks and jagged edges. The blood is warm on his mouth, but when he touches his flesh, it is cool and smooth and hard as a sculpted marble statue. If he is to go anywhere near Caterina in this condition, he must bridle himself first.</p><p>Slowly, shakily, Nicolò gets to his feet, wiping the deer’s blood off his mouth. His robe is sodden, sticking to his arms and legs in dark stains, and he is sure to terrify the living daylights out of any human he is so unfortunate as to stumble across again. He thinks already that whatever he is, <em>human </em>is not it. <em>Monster </em>is the easiest shorthand, and perhaps the rest of the world will see it that way. He strains and strains through memories of all the books he has ever read, cursing the vanity of a boy who thought it was more important to get into mischief with his friends than attend to his studies. At last, he recalls a passing mention of something that the Greeks called <em>vrykolakas, </em>the Slavs <em>vampir. </em>A creature of night and darkness, blood-drinking, unliving, a harbinger of disorder and madness. They were said to be bloated, monstrous, half-rotting, clad in their burial shrouds, with staring eyes and filthy clawed fingers, matted hair still growing even after their death. Nicolò is a number of those now, but not that. He still has his own form, his own shape, his own reason. Only now, that is, with fangs.</p><p>An unhinged laugh chokes out of him. He experiments until he works out how to snap the fangs out of existence again, tucked somewhere in his mouth like a sleeping viper, but at least no longer horrifyingly present. He wipes his bloody hand across his face, and starts to walk. The nights are long in November, it is a while yet until sunrise, but he might as well begin. There is nothing left for him in Acquasanta, and no certainty of what lies ahead. His entire life has been turned upside down in the space of mere days and nights, and he is not even sure if <em>life </em>is the word that it still merits. He hates himself for the tiny, guilty ember of relief. He has been liberated from this sleepy, rustic town, from sheep shitting in the sacristy, from mouthing the words of the Mass while wondering if God Almighty will strike him down, from the choice to take the cloth at all, from the weight of his failures. If nothing else, he senses that he will soon fail in all sorts of new and exciting ways, and cannot waste time with the old ones. Caterina can help him. The magisters of Salerno know some clever remedy. He must put his hope in that. If they do not –</p><p>Nicolò cannot think of that, not now. He cannot think of a great deal. The stars shine coldly down on him. At that moment, he cannot help but wonder if he will ever see the sun again.</p><p>One foot after the other. Step by step. He still is not shod. He will need to find shoes. If not because he needs them, then at least to assuage the suspicions of the humans he will meet. They will learn what he is soon enough, whether <em>vrykolakas </em>or fell demon or some new horror yet undreamt, but until then, he must do his best to cling to any shred of the illusion. For his own sake as much as theirs. He cannot let it all crumble now.</p><p>And so, like John the Baptist wandering in the wilderness in his clothes of camel’s hair, with blood in the stead of honey, like the Israelites fleeing Egypt, like Adam exiled from the Garden of Eden, Nicolò di Genova descends the mountainside, and leaves his old world behind forever.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/><p>
  <strong>PART ONE</strong>
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</p><p>
  <strong>JERUSALEM</strong>
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  <strong> 1104</strong>
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  <strong>LEMEGETON CLAVICULA SOLOMONIS: REX</strong>
</h1><p>The little Key of Solomon the King which containeth all the names, orders and offices of all the spirits that ever he hadd any converse with, with the seales or Characters belongeing to Each spirit, and the manner of calling them forth to appearance, in 5 Parts, called Books viz:</p><ul>
<li>The first part, is a Book of evill spirits, called <em>Goetia</em>, shewing how he bound up those spirits and used them in severall things, wherby he obtained great fame.</li>
<li>The second part is a Booke of spirits, partly good and partly evill, w<sup>ch</sup> is called <em>Theurgia Goetia</em> being all spirits of the ayre.</li>
<li>The Third part is [a book] of spirits governing y<sup>e</sup> Planetary houres, and w<sup>t</sup> spirits belong to every degree of the signes and planets in y<sup>e</sup> signes, and is called <em>Ars Paulina</em>.</li>
<li>The fourth part of this Booke is called <em>Ars Almadel Solomonis</em>, contayning 20 cheife spirits w<sup>ch</sup> governe the four Altitudes or the 360 degrees of the world &amp; signes &amp;c.<br/>These twoo last orders of spirits is of good, and are called the true Theurgia, and it is to be sought affter by divine seeking &amp;c.</li>
<li>The fifth part is a Booke of orations and prayers that wise Solomon used upon the alter in the Temple which is called <em>Artem Novam</em>. The w<sup>ch</sup> was revealed to Solomon by the holy angel of God called Michael, and he also recieved many breef Notes written by the fingar of God w<sup>ch</sup> was delivered to him by y<sup>e</sup> said Angell, with Thunder claps, without w<sup>c</sup> Notes Solomon hadd never obtained to his great knowledge, for by them in short time he knew all arts and siences both good and badd which from these Notes is called <strong>Ars Notoria</strong>.</li>
<li>In this Booke is contained the whole art of Solomon although there be many other Bookes that is said to be his yet none is to be compared with this, for this containeth them all, although they be titled with severall other names, as the Booke Helisoe w<sup>ch</sup> is the very same as this last [book] is, w<sup>ch</sup> called, <em>Artem Novam &amp; Ars Notaria</em> &amp;c..</li>
</ul><p>These Bookes were first found in the Chaldean &amp; hebrew tongues at Hierusalem, by a Jewish Rabbi, &amp; by him put into the greeke Language, &amp; from thence into y<sup>e</sup> Latine, as it is said &amp;c.</p><p>From the British Library, Sloane Ms. 3825, ff. 100–179. <em>Solomon, King of Israel: Clavicle of Solomon</em>, 1572.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
  <strong>Chapter 1<br/></strong>
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  <strong> <em>Jerusalem, Outremer</em> </strong>
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  <strong> <em>Genbot 11, 1096 (Ethiopian Calendar)</em> </strong>
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  <strong> <em>May 13, 1104 (Julian Calendar)</em> </strong>
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</p><p>Nile can sense the Holy City before she can see it. The dust kicked up by the caravan is thick enough to turn the baked horizon brown, and she coughs and screws up her eyes against the sting, adjusting the gauzy netela pinned over her face and concentrating on not toppling off into the sand. This is not her <em>first </em>time on camelback, but certainly her first time riding such a long distance, and her mount has been bound and determined to outdo even its legendarily bad-tempered fellows. Nile doesn’t put it past it to pitch her off within sight of Jerusalem’s gates just as a parting shot, and she can’t help but wonder if the men stuck her with the worst one as a purposeful test of mettle. It spits. It shits. It snorts. It snaps. It stops (and will not start). Hopefully it will come down with some terrible ungulate malady and die while they’re here. She doesn’t think she can take another two thousand miles back home.</p><p>At that, Nile feels guilty. They’ve been traveling for almost two months from the Horn of Africa and the kingdom of Ethiopia, her village on the shores of Lake Tsana. It is the headwaters of the Blue Nile river after which she was named, that joins with the White Nile and flows almost half the length of the continent between Egypt and Nubia. The camel has gotten her this far, and she is an inexpert rider who has been liberal about applying the goad. Beat it until it walks in a straight line, that’s the basic principle. No wonder it likewise longs to be rid of her.</p><p>And now, at last, Jerusalem. Nile has tried countless times to imagine what awaits, and failed. It is almost eight years since the Franks arrived on their great crusade, five years since they actually pulled off their stunning and blood-soaked conquest of the Holy City and proclaimed the new Latin Christian Kingdom of Jerusalem. Back in Europe, King Baldwin I was the youngest son of a middling Frankish count – here, as his brother Godfrey of Bouillon’s heir, he is the first ruler of the kingdom to be styled with the royal title. He has been busy ever since in fighting off the dispossessed Fatimids, who invade about once a year from Egypt, and in capturing more cities for his new crown. Arsuf and Caesarea fell to him recently, he is now away besieging Acre with a Genoese and Pisan fleet (those cities are, she recalls, both in the pope’s realm of Italy), and Nile is relieved that they did not stumble into the middle of a battle. At least they are also Christian. Indeed, the Ethiopian Orthodox Church is one of the most ancient in the world, were Christians back when the Europeans were still worshiping rocks and trees and idols, and so the religious handover of Jerusalem is a good thing for them. But only to a point. Nile has been warned to be wary of the Franks. You can’t kill that many innocent people and expect nobody to remember.</p><p>Nile shields her eyes against the sun – it’s not yet the height of summer, but it’s more than hot enough, and they have had to do most of their riding at night. Rocks skid out from beneath the camels’ hooves as they climb toward the gates. While the city walls are still impressive, even half a decade of repair work has not yet restored them to their former glory, and wooden scaffolds stand everywhere. The city dips and weaves in the sere hills, patched with groves, terraces, vineyards, gardens, towers, newer buildings in pale stone, the minarets of mosques (almost all now converted into churches), churches that were churches all along, synagogues and temples, bazaars and back alleys, streets and souks and squares. It resounds to the echoes of a hundred bronze bells, and smells stronger than anywhere Nile has ever been in her life. It is hot and blinding and blue and brilliant. All at once, she can’t wait to be inside.</p><p>The caravan reaches the Golden Gate, plunging them into shadow as the walls rise overhead, and Nile looks up with a shiver, fingering the small golden cross that she wears around her neck. This gate had been sealed by the caliphate for almost three hundred years before King Baldwin ordered it opened again, and its imposing double arches are said to be the way by which Jesus Christ rode His donkey into the city on Palm Sunday. It is said that King Solomon of Israel first built it thousands of years ago, and Nile stares up at it in awe. The day is scorching, but another bone-deep chill travels down her back.</p><p>She sits atop the camel, which is grumbling and stamping in a put-upon fashion even in the shade, until it occurs to her that they’re taking a while to move on. From what she can collect, the problem seems to be linguistic in nature. The traders speak Amharic and Ge`ez and Coptic, and many of them are also fluent in the Arabic in which they’ve always done business in the Fatimid world before. But of course, the guards on the gates of Jerusalem are no longer Arabic-speaking Fatimids. They are Frankish-speaking Europeans, and this entire Ethiopian trader caravan is completely incomprehensible to them. Voices are raised, in what appears to be the universal conviction that someone will understand you if you just talk louder, and which of course does nothing to furnish comprehension on either side. Just as it seems as if things might get ugly, Nile screws up her courage and kicks her camel forward. “Excuse me,” she says to the leader of the caravan – her oldest cousin, Alimayu. “Can I help?”</p><p>Alimayu regards her suspiciously. He was not convinced of the wisdom of bringing her along in the first place – darkly predicting that she would be swooped off by Bedouin raiders or Frankish barbarians or Egyptian bandits or Greek pirates or God knows what else – and he’s clearly not sure what good she thinks she’s doing here. “Nile – ”</p><p>“Can you understand the man?” Nile does get along with her cousin, most of the time, but he is stubborn to the point of literal insanity. “Or not?”</p><p>Alimayu looks mulish. It’s fairly obvious that the answer is no, but he doesn’t want to admit it before the rest of the traveling party. “And you can?”</p><p>“Just let me try.” In preparation for her first trip to Jerusalem, and since <em>she, </em>unlike <em>some </em>people, thought of this new political development, Nile visited the monasteries on the islands of Lake Tsana, asked if any of the monks knew a few words of Frankish, and when she found one, badgered him into teaching her. Her vocabulary is by no means scintillating, but it’s more than Alimayu knows, and the white faces of the soldiers are staring down at them with unfriendly expressions, clearly thinking that these black men in their Arabic-style clothing are Fatimid spies trying to sneak into the city in plain sight. If this does go badly –</p><p>Nile puts that out of her head, clears her throat, and pushes down her anxiety at speaking a foreign language for the first time in public before strange and hostile men. It is the first time she has seen Europeans in the flesh, and they are indeed almost ghostly, as if drained of color and soul. “Good day,” she says, pronouncing the unfamiliar Frankish words as carefully as she can. “My name is Nile Nesanet. This is my cousin Alimayu Negasi and our companions. We have come up from Ethiopia as – ” She blanks on the term, and makes a hopefully explanatory gesture. “Sell? For business. We are Christian people. We come to you in peace.” In illustration, she holds up the cross around her neck, then remembers the word. “Merchants.”</p><p>There are starts and confused looks from the Franks in their heavy steel shirts, which are fiendishly impractical to wear in this climate. With her netela covering her face, they evidently didn’t realize that she was a woman until she started speaking, and they’re taken aback to hear their own tongue, however halting, from her lips. They look skeptical as to whether she can be trusted to carry out the business of interpretation for her fellows, even though it’s been proven that nobody else is up to the job. Finally the captain sighs and says something too fast for Nile to follow. She has to ask him to repeat it more slowly, and he rolls his eyes, but does so. Nile tries not to let that sting, as she has a feeling this is going to happen a lot, and informs Alimayu that there is a fee for entrance to the city. For a party of their size, the toll is one golden bezant.</p><p>Alimayu starts, then snaps at her that she must be misunderstanding, since that’s a wincingly steep price. Losing her patience, Nile snaps back that she’s not the one who’s cheating them, that is their beloved new co-religionists up there, and then hopes that indeed, none of them speak Amharic. Finally, Alimayu coughs up the bezant, the guards slope off to unlatch the gate, and with one more round of bitter looks on the part of all concerned, the caravan trundles inside.</p><p>The camels clop up the cobbled street, nose-to-tail single file since it’s too narrow to ride abreast. At midday, Jerusalem’s residents are inside, out of the heat, and most of the people who <em>are </em>outside are beggars. A good number of them are children, probably orphaned in the sack, grubby and clamorous as they swarm around the trading party in search of food or coin. Alimayu orders them to be on their way, but Nile hesitates, then reaches into her saddlebag and slips a few strips of dried meat and a few silver dirhams to the nearest of the children. She knows that this singles her out as soft-hearted, an easy mark, but she feels guilty about the fact that she cannot offer more. Of course she had nothing to do with the sack of the year 1099 (by the Franks’ Julian calendar; it was the year 1091 by the Ethiopian calendar, which runs eight years behind due to differences in the reckoning of the date of the Genesis Creation and the Annunciation to Mary). But she feels the weight of it nonetheless.</p><p>The caravan passes under the shadow of the Dome of the Rock, the Al-Aqsa Mosque that has been converted into a church, past the Jewish Wailing Wall that stands empty of any rabbis in prayer shawls and yarmulkes, within sight of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (they all cross themselves) and then finally to a caravanserai that stands among the twisting lanes and thick trees of the northeastern quadrant of the city. This too bears the evidence of its recent and forcible Christianization. The caravan enters through the mihrab, the tall semi-circular opening in the outer wall that indicates qibla, the direction of prayer toward Makkah, and as they dismount at long last in the courtyard, the camels slurp thirstily from the fountain used for wudu, ritual ablutions. They can last longer without than almost any other animal, but it has been a long time since the last oasis, and a few pitiful droplets rattle in the bottom of Nile’s waterskin. She hesitates, then dips her face and hands in too, drinking and washing. The water is clear and as delightfully cold as if it just bubbled up from deep underground.</p><p>Alimayu strides inside in search of the proprietor, clearly hoping that this one still speaks Arabic, and in due course a boy comes out to stable the camels and lead the exhausted travelers to their rooms. Blessedly, Nile is allowed to separate from the gaggle of smelly men and take up lodgings in the quarter of the caravanserai reserved for women. There are just two other guests, a middle-aged Armenian woman with the look of a merchant’s wife, and a dark-eyed Greek girl not much older than Nile herself. The three of them don’t have much of a language in common, but manage to communicate friendly greetings by use of hand signals. Much easier (and nicer) than dealing with the Frankish soldiers and their overinflated sense of superiority.</p><p>Nile puts her bags down on one of the beds, and hopes that their first hour in Jerusalem, communication difficulties notwithstanding, has not gone completely terribly. She’s sure that her mother is worrying about her back in Dembiya. Nile is nineteen years old and has never been this far from home before. Her father died when she was eleven, slain in a skirmish with a rival tribe, and it’s her, her mother, and her little brother, Neberu. Nebi begged to go with her on this trip, but thirteen is still a bit too young, and what with the dangers of the road, their mother didn’t want to send both her children, just in case. Nile silently reassures her that it’s all right, they made it, she’s fine, and then goes to get another drink.</p><p>By the time she is feeling more like herself, having lain down for a brief nap and knocking out for several hours instead, it’s late afternoon, and Nile is ravenous for a proper meal. After subsisting for two months on sour clotted milk (camel) and dried meat (also camel) and the occasional fig or date, she is more than ready to sample Jerusalem’s culinary pleasures, insofar as they exist. They should do it before sundown, as the souks are likely to close with the coming of darkness, and while Nile is stiff and sore and might not mind lying here like a lump, hunger wins out. With a groan, she gets up, shrugs on her grimy habesha kemis and netela – she will have to bathe and wash her clothes later in the <em>hammam</em>, since she reeks (largely <em>also</em> of camel) – and goes to find Alimayu and the others.</p><p>By the time they step out onto the streets, the sun has vanished behind Jerusalem’s western walls, and the shadows are thick and purple. The group keeps close together, looking around carefully. Their village is wealthy, their clothes are good, and nobody wants to get marked for instant rubes and robbed. They will be here for most of the summer, likely until the New Year (the end of August by the Frankish calendar). It has been a long time since they dared to venture all the way to Jerusalem, what with the wars, and there is business to be done. There are salt, ivory, spices, silk and silver, lapis and linen, camphor and cinnabar to trade for; books and manuscripts to buy for the monks of Lake Tsana; goods and handicrafts to sell for bezants; news to gather from the wider world; holy relics or other curiosities to acquire; religious pilgrimages to make; social connections to forge. A large portion of their village’s economy relies on the successful completion of this visit, before they set off on the long journey home to Ethiopia in the comparatively cooler weather of autumn. If all goes well, they will be back in Dembiya in time to celebrate Orthodox Christmas (often kept around the same date as the Catholics’ Epiphany). A few months to rest, then prepare to do it all over again in spring. They only need to go so far as Jerusalem every five years or so, so next year it will be somewhere else, trading at the port towns and settlements along the Red Sea.</p><p>Nile keeps close alongside Alimayu as they scout through the streets. They finally find a tavern that she thinks must be about to close, but she asks the boy standing outside the door to drum up business, and he assures her that they have a license to operate until nine o’clock at night, in the European fashion. That seems impossibly late to Nile, but after conferring with the others, they decide to live a little in the big city, and go inside.</p><p>The premises are busy, open to the air, with tables and benches in a courtyard planted with palm trees, and candles hang in punctured tin lanterns, scattering dancing flecks of light. A crowd of hard-working cooks bustle behind a stone counter, ladling up dishes of soup and breaking off chunks of fresh bread, patrons pushing up for refills on their tankards from hogsheads of ale. Nile steers for the first relatively open table, where they slide in across from a blond Frankish man who looks as if he was planning on drinking alone tonight and isn’t all that thrilled about being interrupted, but doesn’t say anything to stop them. Once they’ve marked their spot, they get up and join the food line, and carry it back once Alimayu has paid. As they sit down, he glances worriedly at the mostly male clientele and says, “Is this a good place for you, Nile?”</p><p>“Come on.” Nile knows that her cousin means well, is trying to protect her virtue as a kinsman should for a young and unmarried female relative, but they’ve already gotten their supper, and she’s excited by all the new experiences. “Look,” she says. “There, in the corner, two women.”</p><p>Alimayu casts a dubious eye at the women in question, who don’t exactly look like respectable society matrons. One is tall, statuesque, dark-haired, and wearing a riveted leather breastplate like a warrior; indeed, she has a large double-bladed axe slung on her back, along with an assortment of other weapons. The other is smaller, beautiful, possibly Chinese, and has a bow, a quiver of grey-fletched arrows, and a belt of wickedly hooked, jewel-handled daggers. (For obvious reasons, even the most inebriated patrons are giving them a wide berth.) The tall one is drinking like a man, and Alimayu makes a scandalized noise, as if to ask if this is common with European women. Then he turns back to Nile. “This is your first visit to Jerusalem, and I don’t want – ”</p><p>“It’s everybody’s first visit to this Jerusalem,” Nile reminds him. “And I’m the only one who planned for the fact that we’d have to speak Frankish here. You’re going to need my help.”</p><p>Alimayu sighs gloomily, as if to say that this is true but he isn’t happy about it, and they start to eat. The food is delicious, and while Alimayu doesn’t believe in letting Nile have her own tankard of ale, he sighs again and lets her have a few sips from his. Her mother has a high seat on the village council, a descendant of one of the matrilineal clans, and Nile has just as much right to be here as the sons of the other families. She intends to remind Alimayu of that fact if he’s going to spend the next several weeks acting like this. He’s eight years older than her and this is his first time leading the caravan, so she knows he’s feeling the pressure about it going well. But Nile’s father taught her how to fight and how to read; it never made any difference to him that his eldest child and heir was not a boy. He wouldn’t have believed in sheltering her just because.</p><p>One of their companions, Bekele, finishes his first bowl of soup and hopefully cajoles Alimayu in hopes of giving him money for a refill. Alimayu does so, but as Bekele goes and gets back in line, thus to snag the last serving from the bottom of the pot, the white man behind him lets out an outraged sound. “Hey now, you black devil! You’ve had one already, and I’m to have none? Give me that, you Saracen thief! This city’s ours now!”</p><p>Bekele, who doesn’t speak Frankish, doesn’t understand, and Nile feels her gut twist apprehensively. The Frankish man makes a grab at Bekele’s bowl, as he pulls it away, and heads turn across the tavern. Bekele tries to retreat to the table, informing his assailant in Amharic (likewise not understood) that he doesn’t want any trouble, but the man doesn’t give up. He storms after them, sees the rest of the party, and scoffs. “And they’re letting entire flocks of you heathens in? What did we win the great siege for, if not to throw out – ”</p><p>“We’re Christians.” Nile is quaking, she can barely get the words out, but she can’t stay silent. “Christian people, from Africa. We have as much right to be here as you do.”</p><p>The man stares at her. An ugly expression twists his lip. “Oh, is this a whorehouse now too?”</p><p>Nile’s blood boils. She starts to get to her feet, even as Alimayu grabs her wrist. The rest of the party hasn’t understood this, though from his tone they know damn well it’s an insult, and they all make outraged motions. But at that, their silent blond companion finally pushes back his tankard and gets to his feet. “For the love of Christ, Stephen,” he says. “Shut the fuck up.”</p><p>Stephen, as the Frank seems to be named, looks as if he’s not going to do that, and makes another lunge toward Bekele. But the blond man steps forward, cracks his knuckles, and with no further preliminary whatsoever, decks Stephen with one expert punch to the jaw. He reels backward, trips over a bench, and falls flat on his arse. There’s a shocked sound from the patrons, a tense look as if this might explode into outright violence, but it’s also just as clear that Stephen is not well-liked (wonder why that could possibly be). Nobody moves to help him to his feet, as he scrambles up, brushes himself off, and spits, “The next time you raise a hand to me, you pathetic drunkard, I <em>will </em>tell the king. Then we’ll see just how long you last here, Le Livre!”</p><p>The blond man shrugs, transparently un-fussed, as Stephen decides to mend his alimentary difficulties elsewhere and shoves out of the tavern into the night. There’s an exquisitely loud silence. Then Nile says, “I – thank you, but you didn’t have to – ”</p><p>“It’s all right.” He turns to look at her. His eyes are pale and reserved and somehow, indefinably, the saddest thing she’s ever seen. “That’s Stephen de Méric, one of the Englishmen who thinks he owns the world. We don’t get along.”</p><p>“I see.” Now that Nile thinks about it, she supposes that Stephen was speaking with a different accent, but it’s hard to be sure. “Sorry about the – the scene. And for interrupting you.”</p><p>“There was room,” he allows. “My name’s Sebastien le Livre, but most folk call me Booker.”</p><p>“Booker?” There’s a joke there, some kind of wordplay on his second name, which Nile can almost get. “My name’s Nile. The man you helped is Bekele, one of my friends. Thank you for that.” She almost adds that they’re new to Jerusalem, but that’s probably obvious, and if Sebastien le Livre is up to some questionable plan of his own, better not to give him any ammunition. She supposes he must be one of the crusaders who stayed after the fighting was done, or one of the new Frankish settlers from Europe. Jerusalem is still substantially underpopulated after the sack, many houses empty and abandoned, and King Baldwin is working hard to entice new residents to move in. That’s what comes when you kill all the old residents, Nile thinks, but forbears to say so. She hopes Booker didn’t have something to personally do with that. “We’ll let you get back to your drinki – your dinner.”</p><p>His mouth turns up wryly, acknowledging that they can both see that the drinking <em>was </em>the dinner. He reaches into the leather purse at his waist and tosses a few dinars on the table. “I was done anyway. Here, for your trouble. Have a good night.”</p><p>With that, he nods to them and turns on his heel, following his vanquished adversary out the door before anyone can appear to reprimand him for brawling. Nile notices that the eyes of the two women in the corner follow him, and they lean together as if to confer. The tall one catches her looking, and Nile quickly turns her head away. She sits back down, as Alimayu looks at her dourly. “Had enough adventure yet? Bekele, next time, one bowl only.”</p><p>“It’s not my fault,” Bekele protests. “What did the Frank say to you, Nile? The polite one, not the rude one.”</p><p>“He said that the rude man’s name is Stephen de Méric, and that his is Sebastien le Livre, but we can call him Booker. Stephen is English, if that makes a difference. Not Frankish.”</p><p>“I thought they were all Franks,” says Bekele’s nephew Gebre. “That’s confusing.”</p><p>“We call them Franks, but they come from many places in Europe,” Nile says, trying to recall the explanation the monk gave her. “There are English, there are French, there are Flemish, there are Italians, there are Normans, there are others. They all speak Frankish, more or less – French. Anyway, we should finish up.”</p><p>Everyone agrees that yes, they have had enough excitement for one evening. They eat their meal and get to their feet, and as they are leaving the tavern, Nile catches the woman with the battle-ax watching her again. This also doesn’t seem like the sort of person it’s safe to cross, possibly more so than Méric because she was smart enough not to openly swagger up and pick a fight. Nile speeds up, wondering if she’ll need to revise her estimation of how well Jerusalem is going. It’s not like this place needs help in having more fights.</p><p>Thankfully, they return to the caravanserai without any more incidents, and everyone disperses to go to bed. Nile climbs onto her mattress, closes her eyes, and is about to plunge into paramount unconsciousness when she hears something scratching on the wall. At first she thinks it’s one of her roommates, but when she cracks an eye, they’re both asleep, and besides, it’s coming from outside. Maybe it’s just tree branches, or a foraging animal. They’ve had hyenas stroll into the village in Dembiya and scavenge in the streets for bones or scraps or even an unattended baby, so anything in Jerusalem is small fry by comparison. And if not – this <em>is, </em>after all, a kingdom at war. Nile doesn’t need to get involved in what does not concern her.</p><p>She determinedly closes her eyes again and keeps them that way until the scratching moves off. There, see. It was nothing. She has real things to worry about, not spooky noises and shifting shadows, and she mentally reviews her Frankish – French – grammar in her head until she nods off. And with that, she falls asleep on her first night in Jerusalem, and is too tired to dream at all.</p><p>The next few days are so busy that Nile has no time to think about Stephen de Méric, Sebastien le Livre, women with battle-axes, strange scratching, or any of it. As the lone French speaker, she has to be involved in almost every transaction; there are a few which can be done in Arabic, which Alimayu handles himself, but even people who otherwise probably do speak Arabic are wary about doing so in public. It’s clear that if Nile hadn’t had the foresight to learn some French, they would be in a great deal of trouble indeed, and she tries to teach Gedre as much as she can cram into his head, so he can help out. This produces mixed results, and Nile is tearing her hair out at the idea of having to do this all summer. Finally she says to Alimayu, “There have to be translators for hire. Let’s get one of them. It was a good year, we can afford it.”</p><p>At that, the bent-backed, white-bearded old man in front of them, clad in grimy turban, thawb, and sirwal and carrying a large basket brimful with all manner of dinged, tarnished, battered, and otherwise decidedly secondhand bronze, brass, and copper vessels, goods, lamps, and jewelry, suddenly brightens. Nile thinks that he’s inevitably going to offer some promising young relative of his to do the job. But instead the old man says in Amharic, “Daughter of Nesanet, may I suggest a simpler solution? I have among my wares many excellent magical rings. Place one of these upon your finger, and all the tongues of men, jinn, and angels will become comprehensible to you. An indispensable aid for the traveler, and at such a reasonable price!”</p><p>Nile does a double take. They’ve been speaking in Arabic for the conversation thus far – at least with him – and she didn’t realize that he knew Amharic. Nor did she mention her father’s name. “I’m sorry. What did you call me?”</p><p>“Daughter of Nesanet?” The old man’s bright eyes study her keenly. “That is who you are, is it not? From Dembiya?”</p><p>“I – yes.” Nile is at a loss for how he can possibly know that, before it occurs to her that her father must have gone to Jerusalem himself and done business with the old man in the past, though it’s still hard to explain why he recognized her immediately. Nonetheless, the thought is poignant, the idea of sharing even this small thing with her father, and rather than informing the old man to be off with his charlatan’s tricks, as Alimayu is doubtlessly about to do, she says, “That’s kind of you, Grandfather. But obviously magic rings aren’t – they aren’t real.”</p><p>The old man lets out a cackle. “Not real? Now there’s a new one. Even the idiot Franks don’t deny that they’re <em>real</em>. One of Mother Makeda’s children thinking that magic isn’t real? Imagine.” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “I should charge you double.”</p><p>Nile is not sure where this conversation is going, not least because he must in fact have mixed her up with someone else; her mother’s name is Subira, not Makeda. He’s just an old snake-oil salesman trying to talk up his basket of junk, and she reminds herself to be patient. “That’s nice, Grandfather, but we’ll just look into finding a regular – ”</p><p>“No, no!” He digs into the basket like a burrowing weasel, throwing out exceptionally dismal items of brassware that she would pick up in the street only if she did not have to bend over to do it. Finally the old man emerges, disheveled but deeply triumphant, holding up a tarnished ring of uncertain metal, set with a cracked black stone. “I found this on the Temple Mount itself,” he says conspiratorially, as if he is doing Nile an enormous favor. “In the rubble from the Franks’ assault. You can see that it is an artifact of particular – indeed, unparalleled – power.”</p><p>“Uh…” Nile exchanges an utterly lost look with Alimayu, just to be clear that they’re in agreement that the old man is a lunatic, a fraudster, or just in need of quick cash and they should buy the ugly old ring and make him go away. “Just to be clear, this piece of rubbish you found in the dirt is supposed to – what was it, help us speak to men, jinn, and angels?”</p><p>“And birds and beasts, yes.” Apparently the old geezer thinks he just wasn’t upselling hard enough. “For you, Princess, only two bezants.”</p><p>Nile opens her mouth, decides that the question of his grasp on reality is another one which does not concern her, and shakes her head. “Grandfather, you know we’re not paying you two bezants for that.”</p><p>“One! One bezant!” He looks as if his heart is about to give out, and she doesn’t want to actually kill him with disappointment. “For you, Princess, for you! You are meant to have it!”</p><p>Nile raises both eyebrows, looks up at the queue of impatient customers who are waiting to examine their wares while the world’s worst brass salesman holds them up, and makes an executive decision. Before Alimayu can protest, she snatches one bezant out of their purse, stuffs it into the old man’s gnarled hand, whisks the ring from his grasp, and drops it into her bag. “Thank you, Grandfather,” she says, going around to take his arm and help him to his feet. “Thank you, that’s very kind. Now if you’ll just – on your way – ”</p><p>He allows her to bundle him off, but his sharp dark eyes remain fixed on her face. He puts a hand on his heart and offers a courtly bow. “I’ve done my part,” he says, with a look over her shoulder as if someone apart from an exasperated Alimayu is standing behind her. “Remember that, Princess. Good luck.”</p><p>And with that – Nile swears she only looks away for a few moments – he is suddenly and completely gone. He must have just vanished in the crowd, the busy marketplace throngs, though he didn’t look like the sort who could move particularly fast. In any event, Nile has spent enough time (and for that matter, money) on his eccentricity. The rest of the afternoon flies by, and they’re preparing to shut down for the evening, when among the trickle of customers still in the bazaar, Nile recognizes a familiar face. It’s the soldier from the tavern, Booker. He’s dressed mostly like a Frank, broadsword belted around his waist, but he’s wearing a turban and she hears him speaking in rough but serviceable Arabic to one of the merchants across the way. Not completely fresh off the boat, then. He must have been here for at least a few years.</p><p>Nile wonders if she should wave at him, though they’re not exactly friends. Alimayu has left to run after their last customer, who forgot his purchase, and she’s alone at the stall. But in another moment, Booker turns, sees her, and from the look on his face, she can tell that he remembers her too. He pauses, then strolls over. “Evening,” he says in French. “Nile, wasn’t it?”</p><p>“Yes, it was.” She answers in Arabic, just to note to him that she knows that too, and one blond eyebrow tilts upward as if impressed. Switching back to French, she continues, “Can I help you?”</p><p>Booker surveys her without immediately answering, perhaps as if to remark on that favor he did her last time possibly being returned. Then he shrugs. “I’m looking for a man called Diyab. Have you, by any chance, seen him?”</p><p>Nile looks at him narrowly. “Is there some reason I should?”</p><p>“I heard he was in the bazaar earlier. If you’ve been here all day, you might have noticed.”</p><p>“What’s this man supposed to look like?” Nile is grateful to Booker for punching Méric the other night, yes, but not nearly enough to forget all those warnings about the Franks. “And what do you want with him?”</p><p>Booker raises his hands, clearly hearing her suspicion. “I promise, I just – never mind. I want to talk to him, that’s all. Old man, white beard, Arab clothing, big basket of terrible brassware?”</p><p>Nile jerks at this accurate description of her erstwhile business associate, and cannot keep it off her face long enough to prevent Booker from noticing. “Yes,” she says reluctantly, since it’s too late to lie. “I saw him earlier. He’s – I don’t think he’s all there, so I’m not sure how much use he’ll be to you. He’s just a crazy old man, be gentle.”</p><p>“Leave that to me.” Booker smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can you tell me where he went?”</p><p>Nile can only offer a vague indication of the direction in which she last saw Diyab the brass merchant, secretly glad that this is the truth; he might be a few seeds short of a pomegranate, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to be hassled by Sebastien le Livre. Maybe the old man has been cheating on his weights and measures, clipping coins, refusing to pay customs dues to the royal treasury, or some other minor economic malfeasance, but that’s hardly an earth-shaking crime. As Booker turns to go, Nile blurts out, “Don’t hurt him. Please.”</p><p>The Frenchman regards her with those unreadable eyes. He is either impressed that she’s trying to protect some mildly irritating but harmless old coot, or wondering why she cares at all. But he inclines his head and says, “As I promised, I won’t. Thank you, Nile. Good evening.”</p><p>With that, he vanishes down one alley just as a panting Alimayu emerges from another one. Nile is secretly relieved that her overprotective cousin wasn’t around for Booker’s little visit, and sees no reason to mention it as they pack up. The rest of their party, who have been working elsewhere in the city, are waiting for them at the house they’re thinking of renting. It will be more comfortable (and less expensive) than staying in the caravanserai all summer, and all these empty properties mean that it’s a buyers’ market in Jerusalem. They probably wouldn’t even have to pay anyone if they wanted to live there, but Nile feels that it is the right thing to do to at least offer. Besides, they don’t want trouble with King Baldwin’s men. Is Sebastien le Livre one of those? He seemed to know Stephen de Méric already, and Méric threatened to tell the king if Booker raised a hand to him again. Either way, it’s a dangerous connection.</p><p>Nile and Alimayu need to stop in the butchers’ lane and pick up some meat for supper, and as he is haggling over a side of beef, Nile catches sight of someone – in fact, several someones – watching her from the shadows. The bells of the city churches are sounding Vespers, rather than the muezzins of the mosques calling the maghrib prayer, and Nile thinks that the watchers flinch back from the sound. It seems too paranoid to think that they might be the sort of creatures that cannot come too close to churches. Nile might discount Diyab’s fanciful claims of magical rings, but she knows that demons are real, and the faithful Christian must take care not to be led astray. Even if these are just entirely ordinary ne’er-do-wells, why are they all <em>staring </em>at her like that? There really can be no mistake. They haven’t looked anywhere else since Nile and Alimayu set foot in the lane. Were they waiting here? Are they following them?</p><p>Nile hopes that Alimayu hasn’t noticed this, and resists the urge to tug his sleeve and ask him to hurry up. She does her best to act as if nothing is wrong, as Alimayu finishes his haggling, hand over a few coins, hoists the beef, and starts off down the street. Nile trots at his heels. Both of them have bronze daggers tucked in their belts, since it’s not a good idea to walk around completely unarmed, but will those be enough? Why is she even thinking about fighting them – whoever <em>they </em>are? It’s not as if that is either necessary or –</p><p>At that, distracted by her thoughts, Nile trips over a badly broken cobblestone and falls painfully, catching herself just in time to prevent from smashing her head open. She winces, fighting tears, which feel too childish even if that <em>really </em>hurt. Alimayu has disappeared around the next corner and has thus missed her humiliation, and Nile struggles to her feet, blows on her skinned palms, and works her tongue around her mouth to make sure she didn’t chip any teeth. Ready to have this day be over, she breaks into a trot. Alimayu was just here, she’ll catch up, and then –</p><p>When Nile rounds the corner, however, she sees no sign of her cousin – or anyone else. She runs faster, half-thinking that this is some stupid practical joke like he used to play on her when she was a kid, back when he was more like an indulgent big brother than this constantly self-serious young man. His father, her uncle, died in the same skirmish as hers, and it was like someone else took Ali’s place overnight. For one thing, she wasn’t supposed to call him “Ali” anymore, as he had deemed it too boyish. But this isn’t funny, this isn’t <em>funny</em>, and something is after her, something is coming. It’s behind her. It’s coming.</p><p>Nile runs faster, too afraid to look back and see what is chasing her. She careens through the dark, deserted back lanes, doors standing open into the houses of dead men, as if their unquiet shades might be waiting for her if she dared to dive in for shelter. It is as if she has stumbled through a veil into a city of bones and ghosts, the real and unhealed tragedy of broken Jerusalem that lies so close beneath the fragile surface of the brightly painted renovation. The cobbles are once more running with rivers of blood, echoing with terrified, pleading, gut-wrenching screams that cut off with a gurgle and a squelch of steel in flesh. Flames lick hotly at her skin. All the dead from the sack are coming for her now. She doesn’t know how, but they’re alive, crawling out of their graves in gusts of grave-dust and rotted ichor, fleshless corpses scenting her with broken holes in their faces in places of noses. They’re hungry. And <em>angry.</em></p><p>And at that, something occurs to Nile. She doesn’t know why she does it, other than that she’s panicking, anything seems worth trying, and if Diyab was so insistent that she have this filthy old ring, maybe there <em>was </em>a reason. She skids to a stop, fumbles in her bag, and pulls it out. Almost drops it – turns around and sees something which indeed does look exactly like an army of corpses charging at her, and screams. She shoves the ring onto her index finger – it’s too big, it hangs loosely, and then the crack in the broken stone flares with brilliant, blinding light. The band burns against her finger, tightening to fit perfectly, and she thinks something – <em>oh my God, it’s </em>actually<em> magical, </em>or <em>I don’t want to die like this, </em>or <em>somebody please help me, </em>or just <em>I wish that these monsters were GONE –</em></p><p>And then there’s a rush of air and spinning vortex of sand in the dark alley, the night blazes like the stars in the heavens are all alight, and –</p><p>Nile cannot be seeing what she’s seeing. It – he – stands in the street, as solid and real as Alimayu, but it’s not Alimayu. She knows at once that he’s not like anyone she’s ever met, and Diyab’s words come back as if in a dream. <em>All the tongues of men, jinn, and angels.</em> Except Nile did not speak anything aloud, she just thought it, and there was nobody near when she did. Besides, the fundamental rule of these creatures is their complete invisibility to mortal eyes. In the Islamic world, anyone who claims to have seen one is ineligible to give legal testimony because he is clearly a madman (unless he is a prophet, which is an entirely different kind of madness). Nile has wondered why a creature that nobody can see must be real – indeed, it’s forbidden to deny their existence – since it seems a little too convenient. But that and every other rational thought goes out the window. Because standing there – handsome, dark-eyed, dark-bearded, sleeves swirling in the drafts of his dramatic landing, and looking very aggravated indeed –</p><p>“Oh my god,” Nile says faintly. “You’re – you’re a <em>djinn.”</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The thing is, Yusuf ibn Umar ibn Zawba’ah Abu Hasan al-Kaysani is really not <em>supposed </em>to be in Jerusalem.</p><p>That was the case even before some unseen great magician – in fact, quite a bit greater than Yusuf was aware that the humans presently possessed, which is worrisome – just reached up and snatched him out of the sky like a child grabbing a leaf. It goes back to a lot of complex, petty, and sometimes only half-remembered reasons, as is often true for the constant feuds among his people, but the essence of it is that he interfered too much during the sack of the city by the Franks. There are still plenty of jinn who keep the old ways, the fire cults and Daevic mysteries of their ancestors, but others have adopted human religions, including Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. Yusuf’s family is held in particular esteem among the latter because their founder, Zawba’ah Abu Hasan, was among the honored Nine Jinn who heard the Prophet, peace be upon him, preach the Qur’an at Batn Nakhlah. Zawba’ah is also one of the Seven Jinn Kings, and Yusuf is his direct patrilineal descendant, a minor prince of the house. But while they may live like humans, and sometimes even among them, Yusuf’s actions during the sack went too far. He risked exposure of himself and his abilities, someone could have captured and enslaved him, he killed too many people (well, do <em>Franks </em>qualify? He’s unsure on that point), and otherwise made a mess of it, even if he was trying to defend the Holy City for his family’s faith against the godless human crusaders. He is banned from ever returning.</p><p>Besides, even if that was not so, Jerusalem is decidedly not a place for Banu Zawba’ah. King Al-Maḏhab the Golden claims the honor of its rule for his own, and is just as proud and defensive of any slights on his territory as he was in the ancient days of Sulaiman. Every one of the Seven Kings is the lord and master of endless peoples, tribes, clans, and families of jinn, every single one of <em>those </em>jinn have long memories and short tempers, and they are usually ready for a fight at the first opportunity. If any of Al-Maḏhab’s accursed gang of wastrels see Yusuf with his feet on the soil of the Holy City, whether or not he had any choice in coming here –</p><p>Right. He should get out of here, which he was in the process of doing before the suspiciously powerful magician grabbed him. Yusuf turns to take to the sky again, finds that he is still rooted to the ground like a stump, and someone – not the magician, but the magician’s quaking apprentice – is standing a few feet away and staring at him with eyes the size of saucers. Yusuf was going to say <em>scrawny</em>, just because all humans are scrawny in his mind, but he supposes that is unfair. She is decently tall, with long black braids covered in a gauzy headscarf and the look of the Horn of Africa, and on her finger, blazing like the sun –</p><p>A jolt of disbelief and terror goes through him. That can’t – that <em>can’t </em>be what he thinks it is, on the hand of a stripling human girl who, he is fairly certain, has absolutely no idea what she has just done. He can barely look at it straight, as it burns even his fiery eyes, and though by rights she should be the one cowering before him (<em>oh great and mighty djinn, don’t hurt me, </em>etc.) he’s the one to flinch back. “Put that – do you <em>mind?!”</em></p><p>The girl keeps staring at him. Again she stammers, “You’re a <em>djinn</em>.”</p><p>Yusuf isn’t sure why they always have to start off by saying that (what does he look like, a zebra?), but several more remarks of a caustic nature die on his tongue. It’s very obvious that neither of them expected to be here and aren’t sure what to do now that they are. He tries to decipher what human tongue the girl was speaking, and thinks it was Amharic. Hence it is in this language that he says, “Will you put that down? You’re blinding me. Where’s your master?”</p><p>He’s momentarily afraid that the girl is going to sprint away before he gets any answers, such as why her master didn’t prepare her better for his grand appearance. Yusuf is far from the most powerful of his kind – he’s just over a hundred years old, still a very young man by their standards – but he <em>is </em>Banu Zawba’ah, has a reputation as a warrior and a breaker of human rules, and is not someone you want to conjure up carelessly. For that matter, this is the first time that he <em>has </em>been called up on purpose, and not just stumbled over in some dark cave in the desert where he sighed, granted some quaking merchant a wish or two, and got the hell out of there before they could even think about reaching for a lamp. It’s another of Sulaiman’s nasty little innovations that if the djinn enters the lamp (or other container) in any fashion, he’s stuck there for all eternity or until such time as the lamp’s owner sees fit to release him, which is never. Yusuf has never been enslaved in that horrible fashion himself, but his brother –</p><p>He shakes his head, reminds himself not to think about Musa, and regards the girl again. She’s still scared out of her wits, but it’s starting to recede, and that’s bad. When the human gets over their terror, the wishes start coming, and Yusuf can rattle them off in his sleep. <em>I want endless money! I want to live forever! I want to be beautiful! I want a gorgeous lover! I want to be king! </em>Over and over, they ask for the same things, and even in his career of just a century, he’s learned too much about humans. But he can’t move even if he wanted to; the power of the ring is holding him in place. By the Most High, this can’t be. It’s broken, for one thing, and filthy, for another, and the girl is definitely none of al-Maḏhab’s bloodline – or for that matter, any other jinn. She’s human through and through, he can see it at a glance. So <em>why –</em></p><p>Problem for later. Yusuf decides to try charm, so he smiles at her. “You are a very clever girl to have brought me here,” he says. “Was it your first time? Does your master know?”</p><p>“Master?” The girl goggles at him, either because his Amharic is bad (it’s not) or because she doesn’t understand the question. “What master?”</p><p>“Your teacher.” Yusuf keeps looking around the alley in expectation of the personage leaping out from behind a wall. Unless he’s hiding and seeing how his student gets on without support; some of them like to do that. Throw them into the deep end and interfere only if it appears as if they’re about to get themselves killed. “Is that his ring?”</p><p>The girl clutches it. “It’s – it’s mine, I bought it from – never mind. Who are you?”</p><p>“You called me a djinn, didn’t you?” Yusuf is not about to give out his name that easily. If you know a djinn’s full name, you can use it to bind them, summon them, bend them to your will, and even if she’s playing stupid, he knows that trick too. “Who are <em>you?”</em></p><p>“Nile,” she blurts out. “I didn’t – I didn’t – know it was – where did you – what was – something was just chasing me, is it – ?”</p><p>“What?” Yusuf pivots to stare behind them, but there’s nothing except more of the empty alley. “Wait a moment,” he says accusingly. “What exactly did you <em>do?”</em></p><p>“I don’t know.” The girl is still terrified, but she firms her chin and looks at him straight – which is not easy to do, he’ll give the little mortal that much. “I just put on the ring and I – I didn’t say anything, I just wished that they weren’t – whoever was chasing me, for them to be gone – ”</p><p><em>“What?” </em>There’s playing stupid, and then there is just plain stupid, and this is the stupidest thing that Yusuf has ever heard in even his happily abbreviated acquaintance with humankind. He takes a step, sparks showering from where his boots touch the dark sand, and Nile shrinks back. “Do you even know what you <em>did? </em>You’re not – you’re <em>not </em>an apprentice, are you? This wasn’t deliberate. You have no clue what you were trying to do. You’re just a stupid human playing with something you don’t understand – if you put <em>that </em>thing on, and then just thought some unfocused wish that your pursuers were gone, you’re lucky you didn’t flatten the entire damn city! Why would you even – ”</p><p>He’s prepared to go on at considerable length, but something about the girl’s face stops him. Then to his shock, she reaches for the ring and wrenches it off her finger – there’s a burned band of flesh at the base of the knuckle, as if it scorched her almost to the bone. “I don’t want it,” she says, tossing it down in front of him. “I’m not a magician, I didn’t even think it was real. I shouldn’t – here. You take it. You know what to do with it. Please don’t hurt me.”</p><p>“Did you just – ” Yusuf stares at the ring sizzling on the ground, then back at her face. “Do you have <em>any idea </em>what that thing is?”</p><p>“It’s a broken ring that an old man named Diyab sold to me in the market,” Nile says, her voice shaking. “And apparently it has now summoned a djinn who thinks I’m an idiot. You’re right, it was a total accident. I don’t want to die, and I know better than to get mixed up with any of your kind. Here, you can have – just get it away from me.”</p><p>“I can’t touch that cursed thing.” Yusuf keeps as well away as if he was a human and she threw a poisonous viper at his feet. <em>“You </em>pick it up!”</p><p>Nile glares at him in something that, despite her fear, looks suspiciously like exasperation; he just told her off for doing it wrong, now he won’t take it back and do it himself. There is a very long moment as they stare wildly at each other, broken only by a cat yowling in the distance. Then Nile says, “Why can’t you touch it?”</p><p>“Because if I do, I will be instantly bound to it and forced to serve its owner for all time, that’s why,” Yusuf snaps. “And for all intents and purposes, it still thinks that’s you. So you’ll have to put it on again and give the command to release me, or I’m stuck here. There will be more trouble if I don’t get out of Jerusalem, and since you’ve just said you wanted to avoid that – ”</p><p>There’s another horrible pause. Yusuf can just see her wanting to ask why he’s not supposed to be in Jerusalem, and he is <em>not </em>going to explain all that to a dirt-blood. (It just means that she’s made of earth, rather than fire like a djinn, water like a marid, or air like a peri, but some humans insist on taking offense when you say it to their faces.) Finally Nile stoops and picks up the ring. It’s still smoking a little, but it doesn’t burn her this time. Yusuf makes a mental note to find out about an old man named Diyab at the first opportunity; if he’s running around and handing out magical rings to hapless bystanders, he needs to be investigated as a matter of urgency. Finally Nile says, “So what happened? I put on the ring, and I thought a wish for protection, and that was enough to bring you here?”</p><p>“Something like that, yes.” Yusuf shifts from foot to foot. “There aren’t many rings that can just grab an innocent djinn out of the sky and bind them without turning a hair, especially if you’re a rank magical novice. You were going to release me, yes?”</p><p>Nile fumbles for the ring again, trying to consciously replicate whatever she did in blind panic, but the cracked stone remains dark. Yusuf tries to leap away into the night – still can’t. “Come on,” he urges. “Just – unthink your wish! It can’t be that hard!”</p><p>This is admittedly less than honest, since <em>he </em>has no idea how to undo the magic of the ring, but that is beside the point. He is not the one who got some dirty trinket from a two-bit peddler and decided to play with it in a dark alley. All right, perhaps it was easier for Nile to snag him than it should have been, but the ruling was that Yusuf couldn’t set <em>foot </em>in Jerusalem. Nobody said anything about a few nice flights overhead. This is the sort of vigorous exploitation of loopholes that his kind has used for millennia in order to get out of fulfilling stupid wishes, or to fulfill them in a way that proves the truth of that old saying about being careful what you, etcetera. Technically, under the terms of Sulaiman’s law, Yusuf has to offer her two more wishes, which should automatically break the contract and set him free. When he has watched Nile struggle a while longer to no result, he growls, “Fine. What do you wish for, O Mistress?”</p><p>“Wish?” Nile looks flummoxed. “I was trying to <em>free</em> you!”</p><p>“Yes, I know, and while you’re failing at that, I thought of something else you could try. You used one wish to bring me here. Quick, wish for two other things. That should do it.”</p><p>Yusuf readies himself grimly for the inevitable wealth-power-beauty trifecta (at least she can only pick two), but Nile still looks lost. It genuinely has not occurred to her that she has an immortal (well, mostly – the oldest of their kind are as old as Eden, and Yusuf will likely live for at least three thousand years if he avoids ill-advised encounters with humans and/or ifrit) magical being at her disposal, even if she doesn’t know how she did it. Yusuf’s powers are also not limitless; he could manage a few chests of gold, but endless caves of Ali Baba-like wealth would be beyond him. He’s too young and too far removed from Zawba’ah – he’s a fourth-generation descendant, and while he can fly, he can’t change shape unless on very rare occasions and his natural body is almost entirely human-looking. His great-grandfather, who Yusuf has never actually met, is reported to have four horned animal heads and eyes of green flame. One useful aspect of this lineage is that Zawba’ah is the king of Friday, the planet Venus, the color green, and the metal iron, and since iron is the bane of jinn, the only substance that can properly and even mortally wound them, Yusuf has more resistance to it than most of his kind. But that is beside the point. How can a greedy dirt-blood be taking so long to think of a wish? The longer he spends here, the better the chances that the Golden One’s pestilential entourage will catch up to him, and then –</p><p>“I don’t know,” Nile says, suddenly doubtful. “If you disappear, will – whatever was chasing me. Will those come back?”</p><p><em>Ah. </em>All at once, Yusuf realizes the problem. If Nile is going to revoke her wish for protection, she has to <em>mean </em>it. And she can’t actually do that if she’s afraid that something else is going to eat her the instant he dematerializes. As long as he’s here, Yusuf is bound by inviolable magical law to defend her – even if he doesn’t want to, he still has to do it. So even if Nile does think of two more wishes, he might not be able to leave until he has fulfilled the first one. Which means –</p><p><em>You know what,</em> Yusuf thinks, teeth gritted. <em>Sometimes I really, </em>really<em> hate Prophet Sulaiman, may the nefarious bastard have peace upon him because I am a good Muslim djinn and will not neglect to wish it for him even while also hoping he is burning in hell.</em></p><p>“Never mind,” he says, when Nile looks like she’s about to lay an egg. “Forget the other wishes. What was chasing you?”</p><p>“I. Don’t. Know.” Nile looks just as done with this conversation as he is. “I saw them only for an instant before you appeared. I thought – ” She hesitates, decides that she’s talking to a djinn and the usual rules of reality are therefore out the window, and says, “I thought it was the dead. An army of dead things. From the sack.”</p><p>Yusuf flinches, which he hopes she doesn’t notice. Ah, yes. The reason he’s banned from this city, as he flies overhead, unseen by the humans, and watches what the Franks are doing to this place, what they have already done. He fought as hard as he could with the gallant but doomed Fatimid defenders; he disguised his true nature with spells, so he looked only like an especially talented (and dashingly handsome) human. He fought even though the laws of his tribe forbade it. It never ends well for a djinn, getting mixed up with mortals. All their cautionary tales repeat the same moral. And to interfere so brazenly in the politics of dirt-bloods… they cannot allow such a dangerous example to stand unpunished. The laws of his people are uncompromising, but for their collective survival, they have to be. And on an intellectual level, Yusuf understands why he had to be punished. The rest of him hates it.</p><p>“Ghuls,” he says instead, carefully dispassionate. “That’s what you thought it was?”</p><p>At Nile’s blank expression – what are they teaching children these days? How old is she, ten? – he sighs and goes on, “Ghuls are the bodies of the freshly dead. They’re animated by a demon called an ifrit, to climb out of their graves and harass the living. But for ghuls to be raised even when their mortal remains aren’t anywhere nearby – ”</p><p>He doesn’t need to finish saying <em>that is very bad, </em>because it is, and also, he’s never heard of such a thing. Ghuls are nasty, shuffling, rotting, undead things, but their existence is tied to the survival of their corpse. Obviously, five years after the Sack of Jerusalem, all the bodies of those murdered in the course of it have returned to dust. It would take an ifrit of almighty power to conjure them back. Pull them out of smoke and shadow, and –</p><p>Nile is clueless when it comes to magic, Yusuf reminds himself. Just because she melodramatically <em>thinks </em>it was the dead of the sack chasing her doesn’t mean that it <em>was. </em>Either way, if he wants to get out of here, he needs to figure it out. He clicks his fingers, mutters a spell of revelation, and holds up his hand, stirring the sand up from the ground. It’s supposed to form into the shape of Nile’s last attacker, whatever that was. There are plenty of magical beasts. Maybe it was just a stray hinn. (Highly different from jinn, thank you very much, and far inferior, like the inbred country-bumpkin relatives.) Or a qareen separated from its soul. Either way, the spell should unmask it, and then –</p><p>Instead, the sand contracts like a fist, into a knot of pure blackness, and then explodes all over Yusuf with a smell like raw ichor. He scraps the goo off his face, disgusted, as Nile lets out a squeal. “Was it supposed to do that?”</p><p>“No.” Yusuf does not have time for a human’s stupid questions, not least because he is not sure what happened either. But before he can formulate another plan, he sees an eerie golden light at the head of the alley, sweeping closer with uncanny speed. While he might not know anything else about the events of the evening, he does know what that is. Those will be the outraged scions of the Golden One, having detected Yusuf’s unlawful presence in the city, and they will attack him, bind him with infernal fire, and if al-Maḏhab has his way, probably throw him to the karkadann or some other manner of horrible fate. Since Yusuf is still bound by Nile’s original wish to protect her, he has no choice. “Come on!”</p><p>With that, he grabs the human girl and throws her over his shoulder (he has to protect her, nothing says he has to do it nicely), ignores her shriek, and takes a running start. Now that he’s using his power in the service of the wish, he can move again, and Nile pounds on his back, ordering him to put her down, as Yusuf springs up into the night wind and the rooftops of Jerusalem tilt away beneath them. At this, Nile decides she doesn’t actually want him to put her down, while Yusuf himself feels that he is doing her a favor. After all, this is a view that no human has ever had of the Holy City: its buildings like toys and its lanes mapped out between the wandering walls, seeing the whole with a bird’s-eye view rather than their limited perspective on foot. He wonders if he should take a few more humans up here and dangle them over the city, make them look at the big picture. Maybe it would cut down on the wars.</p><p>Yusuf bounds from current to cloud, uses a small spell to turn Nile’s continued screaming into snappy theme music, and checks over his shoulder to see where their pursuers are. There are sporadic flashes of golden light, distant shouts, and crashes from below, as al-Maḏhab’s bumbling boar-headed minions run into difficulty in the close quarters, and Yusuf can’t help laughing. Despite the very unplanned turn that his evening has taken, he is not entirely displeased by it. Like most of his kind, Yusuf gets bored easily, his clever and restless mind constantly foraging on in search of the next amusement, and indeed, a great deal of the trouble in djinni society stems from the fact that if they cannot find any entertainment, they will not hesitate in provoking it. If nothing else, this is interesting and diverting and challenging, he certainly doesn’t mind getting one up on al-Maḏhab and his high-handed banishment decree, and while the Golden One’s servants are chasing their tails trying to catch him, he is here, wild and (well, almost) free, riding the wind. He does drop Nile once, too distracted by his showboating, but so what? He catches her.</p><p>Finally, when the chase has lost its savor and he should probably put her down before she uses her next wish to subject him to Barqan’s Fire (not that she knows what that is, but no point in letting her find out), Yusuf bounds to a hillside just outside the city limits of Jerusalem. This is technically outside the Golden One’s territory, so they should be safe, and he drops Nile into a patch of shrubbery, as she covers her head, rolls, and then leaps up, wild-eyed. “You’re <em>insane!”</em></p><p>“I’m not.” Yusuf folds his arms. “And I saved you, so you’re welcome.”</p><p>“You saved me, in the most terrifying way possible, from whatever was after <em>you!” </em>Nile points an accusatory finger, which – it makes Yusuf flinch, and suddenly rethink some of his recent life choices – does still have the Ring on it. “We didn’t even get to whatever was after <em>me! </em>How many – how many jinn <em>are </em>there in Jerusalem?”</p><p>“A lot,” Yusuf admits. “The ruling Jinn King here is Abdullah bin Ba’ bin ‘Afeṣ bin Marzban bin Shahen al-Maḏhab, the Golden One. He’s one of the most powerful magicians of our kind, has the most tribes under his control, and was the lord of Jerusalem all the way back in Prophet Sulaiman’s day. Nor does he ever let anyone forget it.”</p><p>“Was <em>that</em> who was after you?” Nile demands. “The most powerful king of your entire race? Is that supposed to make me feel better? Of all these jinn, how many of them don’t like you?”</p><p>The answer, at least presently, is <em>most of them, </em>but Yusuf doesn’t feel like admitting that. “If you wanted one of them to protect you, you should have been more specific about your wish,” he reminds her. “So that being the case – ”</p><p>“I want to go home.” Nile hugs herself; up here in the night air, with the wind scraping across the bare hillside, it’s quite cool, especially for a girl with the blood of Africa. “Or at least back to the house. My cousin, Alimayu. He’s probably worried sick. If he thinks that I disappeared or I died, it’ll be a mess. He was already wringing his hands over letting me come on this trip in the first place, and now that I’ve been kidnapped by a crazy cloud-racing djinn – ”</p><p>She stomps over and sits down under a tree, as Yusuf tries to think how to proceed. Fascinating as that interlude was, it has only delayed the problems at hand, rather than solving them. He’s still bound to the ring, Nile doesn’t know how to undo the enchantment, al-Maḏhab has just been embarrassed and is likely twice as determined to make Yusuf suffer because of it, there is possibly a very powerful ifrit slinking around Jerusalem and able to call up corpseless ghuls, and his spell of revelation literally blew up in his face. He paces in a circle, thinking hard, then turns back to Nile. “Well, since I have admirably hastened us far away from them, our next course of action should involve – ”</p><p>“GOTCHA!” A huge onyx-skinned hand the size of a bull’s head, cuffed in gold, seizes Yusuf by the leg and dangles him upside down, a fiendishly undignified position for a noble djinni prince such as himself, while its mate reaches out and snaps up Nile before she’s run two paces. They are thus hoisted up, Yusuf has just enough presence of mind to cast a spell over Nile’s ring so that it looks humble and worthless, and thus is forced to watch all his stylish acrobatics, dashing escapes, and top-tier flying go for absolutely nothing. It’s an ifrit, all right, because of course it is. They are the stronger, larger, more powerful cousins to jinn, the ones who resisted Sulaiman’s curse and were permanently damned for it, rumored to be the loyal servants of Iblis, Prince of Darkness and King of the Shaitan, Lord of the Fallen Angels and the Halls of Hell. Unlike Yusuf himself, it looks nothing like a human. It’s much too huge and fiery and demonic. Of course, the humans themselves see and feel absolutely nothing except a hot night wind and a darker shadow than usual passing over. They really are totally blind.</p><p>In the twinkling of an eye, Yusuf and Nile have been deposited face-first onto the marble floor of al-Maḏhab’s throne room, and the ifrit is standing proudly above them like a hound waiting to receive a treat from its master. (Has Yusuf mentioned that he hates ifrits? Because he really hates ifrits.) Nile is even more panicked; she can’t see the elaborate confections of djinni magic that surround them, the endless grandeur, and it appears (as Yusuf closes his magical third eye to check the human view) as if they’ve just been dropped in a bare, deserted house by a faceless black mass. She lurches to her feet with an entirely understandable notion of running for the exit, and he grabs her arm. “Don’t,” he hisses. “This isn’t what it looks like.”</p><p>The next instant, Yusuf hears footsteps, wonders if the Golden One himself is here to punish them, and looks up warily. For an instant, he’s relieved; it’s not al-Maḏhab. In fact it is –</p><p>Oh, <em>fucking hell.</em></p><p>“Yusuf ibn Umar ibn Zawba’ah Abu Hasan al-Kaysani.” The prince’s beautiful mouth turns up in a wry smile. “I should have guessed that you were back in town.”</p><p>Yusuf doesn’t answer, because he can’t. Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab is the Golden One’s eldest and most favored son, his crown prince and chosen heir (even this ancient and venerable magician who spoke with Prophet Sulaiman and saw the First Temple built will one day die), and – all right, <em>fine,</em> there is more to the story of Yusuf’s banishment from Jerusalem than just his illegal involvement in resisting the Frankish Crusade. There may be Seven Jinn Kings, but al-Maḏhab is the greatest king of them all, and the other six have to send promising sons and daughters to his court if they want to be advanced in the world, and because there is a terrible price to pay for failing to acknowledge his supremacy. When Yusuf first arrived from Egypt as a wide-eyed young djinn, he met Prince Sa’id, was assigned to serve in his personal guard, and the two of them struck up an instant rapport. Then it became more than that. But of course, the great-grandson of the King of Friday is unfathomably far below the rank of the glittering golden crown prince of the King of Sunday. Yusuf could only have ever been a concubine, and an unacknowledged one at that. Prince Sa’id will marry some stunningly beautiful and bountifully magical djinni princess who will be the stuff of tales and stories and songs forevermore, and it is not as if Yusuf didn’t know that. It’s just – sometimes he forgot, and he dreamed about a life where Sa’id abdicated his position and they ran off to soar on the desert winds and have adventures and terrify the occasional fishermen, to be in love, to be <em>free. </em>Of course, that did not happen. It will never happen. It was a stupid dream. And if Yusuf was especially motivated to break the rules and fight to save Jerusalem with the Fatimids, his own country’s human rulers, out of an idiotic, heartbroken wish to hang onto his place here, his love, as long as he could –</p><p>Never mind that. Wishes always fuck you over, that’s the entire point, and as a djinn, he should know that better than anyone. He keeps his face in the dust. Prince Sa’id has not yet given him leave to rise, and Yusuf doesn’t want to see what might be in his old lover’s eyes. Amused pity, perhaps, the way he always looked when Yusuf started on about the new life they could have, far from the poisoned palace politics of human and djinn alike, far from the shadowed halls of Jerusalem and its bloodstained ghosts. Al-Maḏhab has stubbornly hung onto his reign over the Holy City throughout endless human wars and disasters, and he’s not about to give it up on account of the Franks now. Nor is Prince Sa’id going to break his family’s legacy, the hopes of his father, and bring such dishonor on his house. <em>Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.</em></p><p>“Rise, Yusuf,” the prince says. Yusuf wishes there wasn’t that faint, familiar note of tenderness in his voice. “It has been some time since I looked on your face.”</p><p><em>Yes, </em>Yusuf thinks, <em>because your father ordered me banished from this city so I could neither intrigue with the humans nor bed with his son and heir, run any risk of distracting you from your destiny. </em>He does not say this, however. Alone among jinn (or indeed, most creatures) he bridles his tongue around Sa’id. Finally he says, “Your Highness.”</p><p>Sa’id looks as if he wants to tell Yusuf to call him something else, but they are standing in his father’s throne room, Yusuf has just been hauled in by an ifrit like a common rule-breaking imp, and there is a human who still thinks they are in an empty house (she can neither see nor hear Sa’id, at least while Yusuf’s spell remains on the ring to muffle its power) and he is talking to thin air. There is a pause as the djinni prince paces back and forth with a contemplative expression, his rich copper skin and his golden eyes and the jewels in his ear gleaming with magical flame. The house of al-Maḏhab worships the Ancient Fire, the Daevic rites of their original ancestors, rather than any human religion, though living in Jerusalem for centuries will acquaint you very well with all of them. He says, “Why were you in Jerusalem tonight, Yusuf?”</p><p>“I was just…” Yusuf trails off. “<em>I was flying overhead because I’m not supposed to be walking on the ground, and I miss it and I miss you more than I can stand</em>” is the truth, but it makes him sound too pathetic. “It was an accident,” he says, eager to blame Nile. He points at her. “That human, she called me down from the skies where I just accidentally happened to be passing. There was something after her, and then your father’s band of half-witted, muddle-headed furnace breathers – ” he glares at the ifrit to make it clear who this insult is directed to – “turned up and captured me after, ah, a brief engagement in the skies. Now here we are.”</p><p>Prince Sa’id takes that in with the amused, unreadable smile Yusuf knows so well. “I am sorry about Damriat,” he says, nodding at the ifrit. “You know he can be… zealous.”</p><p>Yusuf can’t tell ifrits apart, since they all look the same to him – big, fiery, stupid, and a little too fond of chaos – but he shoots a narrow look at their captor upon hearing the name. Damriat is al-Maḏhab’s war captain and right-hand demon, and yes, Yusuf did have a few deeply unfortunate run-ins with him during his service to Sa’id. Damriat leers, exposing his flame-licked gullet. “Remember me now, Ibn Zawba’ah?”</p><p>Yusuf stares at him coldly, wondering if this is the culprit responsible for calling up ghuls. He doesn’t <em>think </em>so, if only since it seems Damriat has gotten even stupider since their last acquaintance, and the ifrit would not risk letting the dead run rampant in his own master’s streets. Certainly not without the Golden One’s express permission, and there are easier ways to track down one runaway human. “Can’t say I do. You’re not actually that memorable.”</p><p>Sa’id, paying no mind to this barbed exchange, crouches interestedly in front of Nile. She can clearly sense that he is close, but still cannot see him, and looks wildly in every direction. Unexpectedly, Yusuf feels a pang of pity for the human girl. Yes, she did get him into this mess, but she’s handled it as bravely as a man twice her age. “Leave off, my prince,” he says. “Or show yourself to her. It’s not fair otherwise.”</p><p>The prince shoots him an elegant, eyebrow-arched look, as if to ask when the bloodsports and perilous amusements of jinn ever take <em>fair </em>into their calculations. Nonetheless, he backs away from Nile and returns his attention to Yusuf. “So you just happened to be passing over Jerusalem,” he says, with a tone as if they’ll leave that part of the story alone for now, “and drew the attention of my father’s ifrit? Because the girl caught you with – what?”</p><p>“Ah.” Yusuf was going to mention the ring, but something stops him, even in the presence of his prince. “No idea,” he says breezily. “You know how humans are. Always meddling with some new kind of magic. Surprised she didn’t turn herself into a kumquat.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Prince Sa’id nods. “Well, this is an eventful evening. In your peregrinations over the city, did you happen to hear anything of an old brass merchant named Diyab?”</p><p>Yusuf keeps his face calm. Nile mentioned that name to him as the person who allegedly gave her the ring, and he did have the thought that any itinerant magical peddler handing out unspecified items of considerable power might have to be dealt with. He immensely dislikes lying to Sa’id, but this remains something he is instinctively wary of broaching. “No.”</p><p>“Pity.” Sa’id paces a few more steps, golden silk swirling. “There could be a great reward in it for you, Yusuf. Have you heard the rumors that the Ring of Sulaiman has been found?”</p><p>Something like lightning, a searing bolt of shock – and worse, no shock at all – spears through Yusuf’s stomach. Nile’s trinket is undoubtedly very powerful, more than either she or Diyab knew (or Diyab <em>did </em>know and gave it to her anyway, which is a different problem) but he has been pushing away the lurking possibility that it was <em>The </em>Ring – just because it can’t be. Not to put too fine a point on it, the Ring of Sulaiman is the most powerful magical object that has ever existed. It is said to have been forged by Allah the Most High Himself and personally given to Sulaiman ibn Dāwūd, Prophet of God and King of Israel, peace be upon him, who was likewise the greatest human magician of all time. It gave him mastery over all the tribes of jinn, taught him the speech of angels and birds and beasts, made him the Law-Giver for magical as well as mortal people. The First Temple is famously said to have been built by Sulaiman’s captive jinn, and al-Maḏhab holds jealously onto the fact that he spoke with the great king in person, the only human that all of their people have always revered, respected, and feared.</p><p>Yet the Ring – especially after the ifrit Asmodeus stole it and wreaked havoc before Sulaiman managed to reclaim it – was deemed too powerful to outlast him. Sulaiman’s glittering empire shattered on his death, the Ring was entombed with him rather than passed on to any of his sons (the man had 700 wives and 300 concubines, he must have had numberless sons, but only three that mattered), and the legend only grew. Sulaiman set down the rules for jinn, the terms of contracts and wishes, the strict laws against meddling too much with humans, the draconian punishments for breaking them. He stripped them of their limitless power; the Ring was given to him by Allah to curtail their rampant mischief. His curse forced them to take mostly human bodies for all the generations born afterward, including Yusuf himself, and to eventually die, even if after thousands of years. The Ring of Sulaiman can control any djinn, break any spell, undo any magic – or cast it. Allah has only deemed one human in all of history fit enough to hold it. But if Sulaiman’s tomb was smashed open in the chaos and destruction of the Frankish sack, and if an enterprising brass merchant crawling around on the Temple Mount for useful things to scavenge happened to notice a spark of gold –</p><p><em>Most High defend us. </em>Yusuf feels dizzy. He determinedly does not turn his head even an inch toward Nile. “That’s interesting,” he says neutrally. “But we’ve all heard this rumor before, haven’t we? Every few dozen years, some wine-soaked djinn comes along waving some tin-pot forgery that’s supposed to be the Ring. Why should this be any different?”</p><p>“This one… is different,” Prince Sa’id says. “Haven’t you seen the mob of foreign creatures swarming on Jerusalem? Witches, blood-drinkers, daimons, jinn – everything with a drop of magic in its veins is crawling over us like buzzards on a corpse. All of them want it, Yusuf. Why wouldn’t they? Whatever species comes up with it will rule the world. And it’s not just creatures, but humans. Baldwin of Boulogne, the Frankish king, he wants it too. What better way to seal his uneasy rule, this bloody Christian conquest by the humans, than to brandish the greatest symbol of the Almighty’s favor? The relic of the True Cross could not hold a candle.”</p><p>Yusuf feels cold. He is briefly tempted to point out that of course he wouldn’t have seen whoever was arriving in Jerusalem due to not (technically) being in it, but he can’t deny the truth of Sa’id’s words. “And so this brass merchant Diyab – ”</p><p>“Is rumored to be the one who found it in the <em>Al-Haram Ash-Sharīf</em> on Temple Mount, yes. A minor hinn of an insignificant desert tribe, but still with enough magical blood to recognize it.” Sa’id studies Yusuf with those deep golden eyes, the eyes that all of al-Maḏhab’s children have, Sa’id and his beloved and equally favored sister Princess Aelah especially. “I would be shocked if he lives out the night. Again I ask. Do you know anyone who has heard anything of him?”</p><p>Once again, Yusuf does not look at Nile. “No.”</p><p>“As you wish.” Sa’id shrugs lightly, as if this is not always a loaded expression among their people. “Because as I said, Yusuf, this could be your chance to redeem yourself. You know that the Ring of Sulaiman is my father and my family’s proper inheritance. If you find it and deliver it to our control – to be kept safe, not used against the other tribes, I swear – then everything would be forgiven. Your banishment would be revoked, and you would be honored as the greatest hero of our people. We could…” He pauses delicately. “We could see each other again.”</p><p>Yusuf looks down at the floor, just because he doesn’t want to give Sa’id the satisfaction of seeing that arrow find its mark. He knows that the prince does, on some level, genuinely love him. Of course he wants Yusuf’s exile cancelled, the stain removed from his name, for his own sake, even outside of their personal relationship. <em>So I could return to the palace and stand in the shadows, guarding you and sometimes summoned to your bed, even when you take a wife and I must watch the two of you together? </em>Yusuf hates the fact that he doesn’t have enough pride to refuse the offer outright. Having even some limited, hidden, forever secret part of Sa’id is better than having none of him. Either way, he must not be selfish. Obviously Yusuf’s current status reflects badly on the rest of the Banu Zawba’ah, and it is not as if he rests easy with the fact that of his mother’s younger sons, Musa is gone and Yusuf is a traitor. And it’s the Ring of Sulaiman. The <em>Ring of Sulaiman. </em>That can’t just be left bouncing around out there.</p><p>“I see,” Yusuf says, noncommittal. “I understand, of course.”</p><p>“Good.” Prince Sa’id steps over to him, takes Yusuf’s chin in his hand, and gazes down at him with undeniable affection. “I always said that you were the cleverest and bravest of all my men, you know. Find the Ring for me and bring it safely home to the Golden One’s halls, for our people and for our race. Save us, Yusuf. I know you can.”</p><p>Yusuf bows his head, kisses Sa’id’s palm before he can stop himself, and the prince has the look of a man who knows that the promise will be kept. Then he nods again, steps back, and raises a hand. All at once, the marvelous throne room, the hulking ifrit Damriat, Sa’id himself, and the silken hangings and marble floors and lamps burning in eternal flame, the jewels and gold and brass and copper, the marvelous painted frescoes and towering columns, all of the Golden One’s eternal wealth and splendor, vanishes into dust. It is just Yusuf and Nile sitting on the bare floorboards of the empty house that she has seen all along, and she blinks hard as if waking up from a particularly horrible dream. She raises a hand in front of her eyes, wiggling her fingers. “What just happened? Did I hear – did someone call you <em>Yusuf? </em>Is that your name?”</p><p>Yusuf winces. Evidently, even with the spell on it, the Ring’s power could not be entirely controlled; he and Sa’id were speaking Daevic, and there is no way for Nile to have heard or understood it otherwise. He notices that he is thinking of it as the capital-letter <em>Ring, </em>and doesn’t know why he didn’t just turn in the girl and solve everything right there. Well, for one thing, the wish wouldn’t let him. He is still bound to protect Nile, and until that small difficulty is overcome – ironically – Sulaiman’s own laws will not let him hand over Sulaiman’s ring. If that is indeed what Yusuf wants to do. Obviously al-Maḏhab thinks he is entitled to it as Sulaiman’s compatriot and fellow ancient king of Jerusalem, but the other six djinni kings think that he’s quite full of himself already, lords it over them as a master rather than an equal, and giving him the Ring, even on Sa’id’s solemn promise that it will be kept safe and unused – how long would that last? The first time there was a rebellion in some far-distant dusty corner of Arabia, one of the constant upheavals among the jinn, what would stop al-Maḏhab from reaching for the Ring and solving the conflict without unnecessary strife and bloodshed? Would the Golden One not then convince himself that it was better to do so, rather than let everyone suffer?</p><p>Yusuf shakes his head. He does want his banishment revoked and all to be forgiven, he does want to see Sa’id again, and he does want to be free of Nile’s inadvertent hold over him, all of which point to finding a way to separate her from the Ring, him from her control, and then deciding what to do next. “Well,” he says cheerily. “Breakfast?”</p><p>“I don’t – ” Nile reaches for the Ring again, clearly about to take it off, if only any of this would be that simple. “No! I need to find my cousin! I need to work! I can’t – ”</p><p>“You go back to the humans with that thing on your finger,” Yusuf says, “and you’ll draw down a swarm of everything that was chasing you last night and then some. They’ll rip your cousin and everyone else to pieces. I’ll explain later, but evidently we have quite a bit more company than we expected. I’m still bound to protect you, and trust me, you’re going to need it.”</p><p>For a final moment, silence. He can hear all the excuses and explanations and arguments running through her head, the last, feeble hope that he will evanesce away on the first beams of morning sun (they have now spent all night on this stupid enterprise). Then she blows out a deeply frustrated breath. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll help you deal with whatever… this is, and once you can assure me that I’m safe, I’ll set you free. Then I return to my cousin Alimayu – you have to let him know that I’m alive, by the way – go home to Ethiopia, and you never bother me with any of these insane magical feuds ever again, in any shape or form. Clear?”</p><p>“Indeed.” She seems, Yusuf notes with not entirely optimism, to be learning quickly. “Deal?”</p><p>Nile Nesanet – the second name must be her father’s in the Amharic fashion, and it means <em>freedom, </em>which is once again deeply ironic in his current predicament – eyes him one last time. Then she holds out her hand, and human girl and djinni warrior shake. “Deal.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Even from here, it is obvious that the old man is dead. Black blood drips down the stone steps from the slashed ruin of his throat, and his eyes stare glassily at the sky, locked in the last vision of terror on whatever it was that took his life. A dagger lies just out of reach, and that night-dark blood, unlike the bright crimson or drying brown of a slain human, tells the dead man’s tale plain enough. He was one of the jinn or the hinn, and the scent conjures images of endless mountains of sand, tents of tanned hides, a small oasis and a dazzling desert sunset. From the Sahara, Nicolò thinks, somewhere far south and west of here. He might be able to tell more closely if he tasted a droplet. He has, unavoidably, become something of a blood connoisseur.</p><p>He stands so still that the air does not so much as flicker around him, and it is almost impossible to pick him out from the rest of the darkness. To judge from the scent, the old man has not been dead long – two hours at most – and if Nicolò was not busy elsewhere, he would have caught up to Diyab, as there can be little doubt that this poor soul is, while he was still in a state to answer questions. Now there’s nothing to do but wait and see who finds the body first, who comes looking for it, and what <em>they </em>do as a result. Nicolò checks the sky. Less than an hour until dawn.</p><p>He glances around, though he would have sensed it if anyone was nearby, then approaches the body, kneels, and dabs up some of the congealing blood on his finger, licking it off. Hinn. Definitely Sahara. There are a few scattered, frozen memories still preserved, but they’re losing coherence and clarity the longer that their owner is dead. Nicolò senses pursuit, sees Diyab backed into a corner, raising the dagger as it is knocked away – tries to get a good look at his attackers, curses the old man’s feeble eyes and the darkness of the alley – hears him speak. Nicolò can get only fragments. <em>I don’t have it, </em>Diyab stammers. <em>I don’t have it, please – please – PLEASE –</em></p><p>Then the bright flash of a blade, the biting cold of lethal iron, and Nicolò grimaces, touching his own throat, which can briefly feel the slash before the sensation fades and he is left alone with the old man’s staring corpse and more questions than he started with. Something seems wrong about leaving Diyab lying here. A hinni desert tribesman was likely a Saracen, if he held any human faith at all, but even almost forty years since his last night as a priest and a man, Nicolò has not yet disavowed everything. He steps over soundlessly and closes Diyab’s eyes. <em>“Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine,” </em>he murmurs, <em>“et lux perpetua luceat eis, requiescant in pace. Amen.”</em></p><p>It’s not much of a funeral service, and Nicolò has no idea if the deceased would appreciate it, but it feels better than no acknowledgment at all. He withdraws back into his observation post just as footsteps echo from the alley, and the first witness arrives on scene. If it’s accurate to call him a witness, since something about the man’s disheveled aspect, the way he stops short, stares, and swears, makes Nicolò quite sure that he was already searching for Diyab and hoping to find him while not dead in a ditch. The man – he is tall, blond, and has the look of a French soldier – is human, so of course he does not notice the vampire standing just a few feet away. He kneels down, looks shiftily to each side, swears again, and begins to search the body, as if someone would have killed the poor old geezer and neglected to do this already. Of course there’s nothing. The basket of poor-quality brassware spilled across the stones also looks even shabbier than usual. <em>I don’t have it. </em>Nicolò doesn’t think the murderer found what they were looking for.</p><p>The blond Frenchman finishes his undignified corpse inspection, shakes his head, and gets to his feet, wiping his hands on his tabard. This leaves two smears of blood black as tar, making him look not unlike the murderer himself, if only to anyone aware that it is in fact blood. He looks around again, still manages not to notice Nicolò, and seems to decide that either way, he doesn’t want to be caught here. He hurries off down another alley, the light now grey enough that the sun will crest over the Golden Gate and the Temple Mount quite soon, and spill into the streets not long after. It won’t turn Nicolò to dust or anything like that. He’s been a vampire long enough now that he can tolerate it, at least for short periods. But it hurts him, it draws attention to his unnaturalness, and he can’t learn anything else here that he didn’t already glean from Diyab’s blood. And now he knows that even the humans are looking for him. This runs deep.</p><p>Nicolò turns and glides off through the just-waking warrens. If there’s a more ironic place in all the world for a vampire to be skulking than Jerusalem, he’s having a hard time thinking of it. It’s true, just as it was that night in Acquasanta when he was attacked, that he cannot cross the threshold of a church, or set foot on consecrated ground without terrible pain. Holy water stings like fire, and a crucifix, especially if brandished in his face without warning (one reason he had to leave Italy was apparently every single godforsaken peasant came equipped with one) feels like a full-body punch. He secretly wanted to turn his back on the church; now the church has given him what he wished for, in a permanent and unalterable way, and Nicolò bears the shame of it constantly. Even the brief bit of liturgical Latin that he spoke earlier has left his mouth feeling dusty, unpleasantly itchy. <em>You are not meant for this. You are not even meant to pray.</em></p><p>Even worse, for a man as sensitive and self-aware and intelligent as Nicolò, who spends so much time gazing into himself and being so unhappy with what gazes back, he has never gotten <em>answers. </em>Not a single one. He has never learned why he was attacked, who it was – presumably another vampire, but that is as far as it goes – why they chose to sire him and not merely leave him dead in the bushes, or anything else. He had to learn everything by trial and error. The few other vampires he has met, he has almost never liked. They taught him the essentials, and for that he very grudgingly thanks them, but God strike him down indeed if he ever gives into the way they see humans as dumb prey animals, to be hunted and drained for sport. There are rumors that Asher de Clermont, the patriarch of the most powerful vampire family in France, founded a military order of supernatural knights in Antioch in 1098, meant to stop such indignities, but Nicolò is not connected enough to his kind (<em>they are not my kind, </em>he wants to scream) to know. A vampire <em>family </em>sounds impossible. Perhaps if he was not so alone. He did not mean to be, once. But Caterina –</p><p>Nicolò grimaces, crosses himself even though it feels like hitting himself with a hatchet, and manages to make it back to his lodgings just ahead of the sun. At least everyone who rents property in Jerusalem is so desperate for takers that they will ask not a single question of a potential tenant, such as why he hangs tapestries over all the windows to keep the light out, rarely is seen to leave before nightfall, does not sup at any of the neighborhood taverns, and otherwise keeps such a solitary and nocturnal schedule that owls might despair of him. Nicolò’s kindly old landlady did worriedly venture once whether he might be ill, and he told her that he was afflicted by a demon in his youth (this is, after all, entirely true) and it left some lingering scars. She patted his hand and told him she had a good charm to keep demons from the house if they ever thought about returning, and that was the end of it.</p><p>Nicolò pushes open the door and enters his rooms. He does not need to arrange his living space to human standards; there is a low bed and a salver of water for washing, and he can drink wine if he would like the taste, though most human food aside from raw meat still repulses him. He sorely dislikes this savage impulse in himself, the cultured merchant’s son who was raised with far more sophisticated tastes, but among the indignities he now suffers, that is low on the list. The lack of necessities such as food or a privy or ordinary hours means that Nicolò can cram all the rest of the space and time with books. Teetering stacks of them cover nearly every available surface: huge leather-bound codices, papyrus scrolls, pages of fine onionskin, stone steles, sheets of parchment, half-cut quills and inks of blood and berries. The volumes are written in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Coptic, Chaldean, Aramaic, Armenian, Syriac, Sumerian, Sogdian, old Egyptian, and other tongues that Nicolò cannot even identify, but plows through stubbornly in hopes that something sticks by accident. His Latin is good, and his Greek and Hebrew adequate. For the others, he has made the acquaintance of a Jewish rabbi, Samuel ben Kalonymus, who lives down the street; he reads at least a dozen languages. Like Nicolò, he too must hide his true nature in a city full of Christians. He will not say how he and his family survived the sack.</p><p>Nicolò checks, as he always does upon returning home, that nobody has touched his things, and that there is no other scent but his own in the air. He is feeling the fatigue that always comes when the sun is up, though he struggles against it; he cannot afford to go to sleep right now and miss whatever is unfolding with Diyab’s murder. While he cannot be entirely sure, he would lay good silver that it is related to the rumors. And as for those…</p><p>Nicolò strides over to his desk, upon which the greatest concentration of books is usually heaped. He sifts through loose sheaves of a Carolingian treatise on angels and pulls out the most precious book hidden beneath, the translation which Rabbi Samuel has been working on for many years. The book is called the <em>Key of Solomon, </em>and it purports to be a collection of King Solomon’s greatest spells, the secrets for conversing with spirits, and the magic which can be worked as a result. Rabbi Samuel is cheerfully skeptical about any and all of these claims, but his insatiable scholar’s curiosity has been engaged, and Nicolò knows something that the rabbi does not, which is that magic is real. Among the diagrams and drawings in the <em>Key </em>are representations of the Seal of Solomon, the six-pointed star, which was said to have been engraved onto the king’s magical ring. And as for that –</p><p>The memory of Diyab’s slashed throat trickles back into Nicolò’s mind, and his last words. <em>I don’t have it. </em> Nicolò cannot be sure, but he has a strong feeling as to what the brass merchant was killed for. The rumors have been gathering for a while, ever since Nicolò arrived in Jerusalem three years ago. He has not seen the vaunted object with his own eyes, nor received unassailable proof of its authenticity, but he obviously needs less convincing in both the existence and the agency of the supernatural. Nicolò has absolutely no intention of capturing the Ring of Solomon on behalf of his species. He has, as noted, found most of them abhorrent. He wants it to break his own curse. After all, it can undo any spell. Reverse any transformation. It will end this terrible sentence to endless centuries of blood-soaked solitude. It will make him a man again, and for that, Nicolò will pay almost any price.</p><p>Restlessly he stares down at the pages of the <em>Key.</em> Rabbi Samuel has been translating the manuscript into Greek, and Nicolò’s fingers itch to try one of the spells. He is aware of the dangers of meddling with unknown magic, especially in a language that he speaks only functionally. But if the <em>Key </em>was real, and it worked, would that not preclude his difficulties in trying to track down the Ring by hand? Or at least call up a spirit, one of Solomon’s old djinni servants, and force them to reveal the whereabouts? If it’s no longer safely concealed in Solomon’s tomb on Temple Mount, is at large in the world, it could be that easy.</p><p>Nicolò fights against the thought, since this is usually the moment where, lured into a tempting shortcut, the tragic figure of the cautionary tale irrevocably dooms himself. He would need to seriously prepare, for one thing. Obtain grease chalk to draw a pentacle, fresh parchment to copy out the spell of summoning and binding, practice in pronouncing all the commands perfectly so as to not leave himself open to the djinn’s trickery at a vulnerable moment. The <em>Key </em>warns repeatedly of the perils of associating with higher spirits: they are sly, deceitful, and untrustworthy by nature, constantly looking for an excuse to second-guess their commands or destroy their master, and Nicolò would not be very fond of being repeatedly forced into magical servitude either. But it would be brief, humane, an interview between equals, even from the bonds of a pentacle. Find the Ring, use it to make himself a man again, and then – God knows what. Throw it in the sea. Though he seems to recall that was tried before, and it still came back.</p><p>If he <em>is</em> going to do this, however, Nicolò will need to be clear-headed and strong, with firm concentration, sharp perception, and heightened senses. And if he is going to do that, he will need to feed. There are very few large prey animals in the hills outside Jerusalem, only small birds and beasts, which fill his immediate hunger but do not last over a longer term. To obtain the best results, it must be human blood. Which means he will have to do the one thing he hates most, and hunt one of them.</p><p>Nicolò rocks back on his heels. He is aware of the dull, cottony feeling in his head, the slowness of his reflexes, the gnawing pain in his belly like any mortal hunger, which means he has once more put it off too long. He does not have to kill his mark. There are plenty of ways to take only as much blood as required, which leave the human slightly light-headed, giddy, and in possession of a confused memory of something half tryst and half death, but no worse for wear. But with all the creatures swarming this city, one of them will notice any human that a vampire has fed on, and in turn, that will lead to them swiftly discerning<em> which </em>vampire. Nicolò’s greatest asset has been his secrecy and his solitude, which has enabled him to make progress without worrying about being swept up in supernatural politics. Feeding will expose him. Quickly.</p><p><em>Make a decision, you idiot. </em>Nicolò swears under his breath. One way or another, he has to do something. Everything comes with its own set of risks. If he isn’t going to drain another hare (and he is so <em>very</em> sick of hare), it might be worth it, if he can do this quickly, to test the <em>Key’s </em>veracity and get the quest over with, rather than muddling pointlessly about for God knows how long. Then he can get out of Jerusalem, as he might have to do soon anyway, and –</p><p>It strikes him that he doesn’t actually know what he’ll do once he becomes human again. Go back to Genoa, he supposes, which he has not seen since he was a mortal. He never dared to set foot in his city in his current state, and there are yet some old men alive who might know him. But that is a problem for later, and one which Nicolò would very much like to have. Fine. He hates it, but he’ll do it. Might as well stay asleep for the day, let any furor over Diyab’s death work itself out however it might, and discover how matters stand this evening.</p><p>Nicolò climbs into bed, stretches out with a groan – he may be an immortal and ageless dark prince of the night, but his back still contrives to hurt, which just seems unfair – and supposes that this is another goal that would be bolstered with a feed. At least he’s overcome the blind and horrifying bloodlust of a fledgling vampire, managed to learn how to control the predator urge. He still doesn’t like it if someone bleeds unexpectedly near him, but at least he won’t immediately try to tear their head off. Besides, when he arrived here in 1101, the city was in such desperate straits that most people were entirely willing to take a few bezants in exchange for whatever the handsome and haunted Italian gentleman with the courtly manners wanted to do to them. That was the way of things after the sack. If it was supposed to be a glorious victory for Christendom, Nicolò saw too much of the aftermath to agree.</p><p>He closes his eyes and slips under into the dreamless sleep of the undead, from which he wakes at dusk feeling only marginally refreshed. The pounding in his temples has increased, and his throat rasps like sand. If he carries on too long in this deprived state, he’ll lose the ability to be careful when he does take a feed. Enough shilly-shallying. There are even brothels where this would be viewed as an exotic sort of foreplay, though Nicolò has not made personal inspection. Even if his priestly vows no longer bind him, he has thought it best to keep from multiplying his sins, especially while he remains outside a state of grace and unable to take the Host. He is not sure there are any of his former fellows in existence who could hear his confession, and for damn sure there would not be any absolution.</p><p>Nicolò dresses in his customary black clothes and slips out into the sundown streets. At once, he can sense the air buzzing with news, tension, low-voiced gossip, and can’t be sure if it’s about Diyab or not. Then he listens harder and realizes that of course it isn’t. The Holy City has far more consequential matters to concern it than the unremarked death of anonymous merchant riffraff. Instead, the news is that the city of Acre has finally surrendered to King Baldwin and his fleet of Genoese and Pisan mercenaries, and hence been officially added to the Christian Kingdom of Jerusalem. This, however, has not been accomplished without incident. Baldwin promised the well-to-do Muslim residents of Acre that they would have safe passage and guaranteed resettlement in Ascalon. Instead –</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Nicolò says, interrupting the man who has been relating this news to a flock of eager compatriots. “The Italians did <em>what?”</em></p><p>The man jumps a foot and spins around – having, of course, no idea that Nicolò was standing behind him – and clutches a hand to his heart. “Jesus. You move quiet as a shadow, friend.”</p><p>“So I’ve been told.” Nicolò takes another step. “What did you say the Italians did?”</p><p>As he can clearly hear from Nicolò’s accent that he is one himself, the town crier starts to look nervous. “I’m just saying the tidings as we had them. The Genoese and Pisans plundered the Saracen refug – the Saracens who are now unlawfully resident in our own Christian land, so truly it was no better than what they could expect. Took their valuables, raped the women, killed a fair few. The king’s said to be furious. Infidels or not, it makes him look to be the faithless one, if he gives a promise of safety and his own men break it.”</p><p><em>And some folk still think we’ve blessed this land. </em>Nicolò feels a very strong urge to scream – that or rush out of Jerusalem, run up the coast, intercept the fleet on the triumphant return from Acre, and deal out some vigilante justice of his own to his misbehaving countrymen. He’s not sure that he won’t do it anyway, whenever they arrive here, and he must fight it back. Nicolò has often told himself that he must not, he <em>cannot </em>take on the role of the scourge to humanity, must not give into the temptation to punish them for their transgressions simply because he is so much stronger than them. He is, after all, not an official citizen of Jerusalem, a servant of King Baldwin, a member of the royal administration, or a captain or compatriot of the murderous mercenaries. If he does the same to them, however much it may be justified, it is a very slippery slope. Feed the beast inside him, always barely bridled to start with, and it grows stronger.</p><p>Since the humans are looking nervous – they might not know exactly what he is, but something in them senses that the difference is more than whether he is an Italian – Nicolò smiles, begs their pardon for the interruption, and starts on his way again. However, he has not gotten more than a few steps when something else catches his attention. It’s a young African woman, looking as if she too would rather not be observed. She glances around, darts off, and –</p><p>Hold on. <em>Hold </em>on. The ring on her finger, which Nicolò can pick out even from twenty paces away and in deep twilight thanks to vampiric eyesight, is – he can’t be sure what, but it is several orders of magnitude more powerful than anything he has ever encountered before. It can’t be <em>The </em>Ring, because it is not about to just drop into his lap because he’s been thinking particularly hard about it, and also because she is human. No ordinary woman – or man, this is not any slight upon the abilities of the fair sex – could just pop on the Ring of Solomon and go about their day. But it could have some spell on it, and she likely has no idea that it is even magical. If Nicolò feeds on her, he may be able to learn what it is and how she came by it. Two birds.</p><p>After an instant of further consideration, he follows her down the narrow, gloomy path that leads between beehives of mudbrick houses. Only about half of them are occupied, golden-oil lamplight shining out of those windows while the rest remain cold and dark. The African girl walks quickly – she’s holding some clay jug resembling a Roman amphora – and Nicolò speeds his pace to match hers. The alley widens up ahead, where several lanes converge, and maybe he can catch up to her there. He’s not a barbarian to seize and drag off a struggling woman. He’ll introduce himself, ask permission, offer to pay her. The mesmer may have to come into it, but –</p><p>Nicolò is focused on keeping close to the girl, with his abilities in the shoddy, second-rate, hunger-enervated state that they are, and thus of all the stupid, <em>stupid </em>things – he is a deadly apex predator, and yet – he trips over a broken board craftily jutting out at ankle level, and almost goes sprawling. He catches himself, but the girl suddenly realizes that a strange European man is following her with focused intent down a narrow alley after dark. She whirls around, screams, snatches up the board with impressive reflexes – <em>is </em>she human? – and belts Nicolò in the stomach hard enough to knock his wind out. (This is no small feat for a vampire, who only needs to breathe half as much as a human.) While he is still gasping, she drives her knee ferociously between his legs (yes, <em>also </em>hurts like hell, thank you very much) and finishes up by bashing the board over his head, shattering it into splinters. The board, that is. Not his head. But Christ, it briefly feels like it.</p><p>“Jesus,” Nicolò wheezes, holding up both hands and praying that no other inhabitants of Jerusalem, human <em>or</em> creature, just witnessed that deeply unedifying spectacle. “Hold on, would you? Jesus.”</p><p>“No!” In case she should be caught without a weapon after the board’s demise, the girl snatches up a loosened cobblestone, looking as if she might hurl it at his head. Having learned the hard way not to underestimate her again, Nicolò keeps a prudent distance. “You were following me, you perverted – you filthy – ”</p><p>“All right, it doesn’t look good.” Understatement of the decade, considering that yes, he did mean to bite her neck. His nether aspects are still throbbing from her knee. “I just wanted to – ”</p><p>Nicolò is aware that there is nothing he can say to get himself out of this situation, and this is entirely his own fault, but he takes a step forward nonetheless. The girl’s eyes go wide and frightened, and –</p><p>At that moment, Nicolò is hit like a ton of bricks from above, driven flat in the mud, and has no idea what just happened or who tackled him. It wasn’t the girl, that’s for sure, and it also wasn’t anything human. It is hot as flame, scorching as sunlight, pummeling him as they roll around in a flurry of punches and kicks. Nicolò snaps out with his fangs, and tastes black blood warm as Egyptian sunlight, golden as a crocodile’s eye, rich with the magic of pharaoh-sorcerers building pyramids and entering the underworld, flavored with palm fronds and dates and heavenly fire. It’s the most delicious, stunning, delightful thing he has ever drunk. It also belongs to a deeply enraged djinn who, there is no doubt about it, is definitely trying to kill him.</p><p>Nicolò tries to wonder, in between the very heavy-duty fisticuffs they are presently exchanging, what in damnation a human girl is doing with a djinni bodyguard, but this is also his fault for going after her and idiotically assuming that she couldn’t actually use the very powerful magical ring on her finger. Just as Nicolò is blackly speculating whether hunger has rotted his brain or he was always this stupid, the djinn lands another very solid blow in certain much-abused portions of his private anatomy, and takes the opportunity to throw him flat, hitting his head on the stones with an almighty crack. The djinn is on top of him at full length, his fire-hot body pressed against Nicolò’s marble-cool one, and curls of smoke rise into the air where their unlike substances meet. The djinn’s face is barely an inch away from Nicolò’s, his teeth bared in a snarl. This is a uniquely horrible moment to remark that without it (and even, it must be said, with it) he is startlingly, breathtakingly handsome.</p><p><em>It’s breathtaking because he and the girl just beat bleeding Jesus out of you, not to mention making it a good thing that you did not plan to sire human children. </em>Nicolò’s manhood is wounded in any number of senses, and the throbbing is certainly not related to the presence of said very handsome and very angry djinn heavily on top of him. The girl is goggling at them as if they’ve suddenly popped back into existence; since they were fighting at full immortal speed, she could not follow it. There is a deeply nasty silence, which Nicolò breaks. “Get off me, genie.”</p><p>The djinn glares at him with such force that Nicolò can practically feel his hair catch on fire. “I’ll have some answers about why you were following us, bloodsucker.”</p><p>Nicolò admittedly deserves that, but his attention is caught on something else, the confirmation that it’s not just one of them, but both. <em>Us? </em>That is an interesting development indeed. “Are you proposing to have this conversation with me on my back?”</p><p>“I’ll propose to have it anywhere I like.” A slender blade of silver – baneful to vampires as iron is to jinn – comes to rest with exquisite care in the hollow of Nicolò’s throat. He hisses, flinching from the burn. At close range, the djinn’s eyes resemble a vast starless sea, a dangerous ocean where an unwary sailor would surely drown. “So why don’t we start with your name?”</p><p>“Nicolò,” he grits out. “Nicolò di Genova.”</p><p>An elegant twist, a drop of slow dark-crimson blood, in revenge for that which Nicolò took from him earlier. “And who is your sire, Nicolò di Genova?”</p><p>The question confuses him. He doesn’t think the djinn can be asking about his mortal human father – who was a bastard, but never mind that. If it is the identity of his vampire maker, he of course has no idea. “I don’t know.”</p><p>The djinn scoffs. “Of course you know. Every vampire knows. Your kind are obsessed with bloodlines and pedigrees.”</p><p>“I. Don’t. Know.” Nicolò has just about had enough of handsome idiot jinn and their silver knives. He wriggles back and forth to test the waters for a leap, and which results in him and the djinn grinding their hips together in a way that is not entirely unpleasant. Indeed for a moment that is more mortifying than anything else he has endured tonight (and that is saying a lot), Nicolò is briefly afraid that there might be incontrovertible evidence of how not-unpleasant he finds it. He shifts position again, reminding himself that the ache is from the repeated and literally below-the-belt blows. Dirty fighters, the pair of them. “Now will you get off me, or do you think I’m one of those human whores <em>your </em>kind are said to enjoy so much?”</p><p>If it’s a purposefully baited salvo – well, he has been hit in the family jewels twice and thinks that he’s entitled to it, and his adversary is hardly brimming with friendliness either. Something flickers in those unfathomable eyes, and the djinn rolls off, springing to his feet with an acrobat’s grace and offering Nicolò a hand with a sarcastic flourish. “Milord?”</p><p>Nicolò debates taking it, if only to rip his arm off and shove it like a javelin directly up the djinn’s backside until his fingers ram up his own nose. He regretfully decides to eschew temptation like (ha) a good Christian, and stands up under his own power. He brushes himself off, then bows to the girl. “I apologize for your fright.”</p><p>She eyes him warily and does not answer. Nicolò still can’t fathom why the djinn attacked him on her behalf, unless she is a magician and this is her spirit-servant. Whether from the <em>Key </em>or elsewhere, she seems to have learned how to do it. He tries not to look too quickly at her ring, or let on that he noticed it at all. There’s an awkward pause, as if he expects to be introduced to either of them. Jinn are notoriously touchy on the subject of names anyway. But even if he has (admittedly somewhat deservedly) been molested by both these strangers in quick succession, Nicolò cannot help but find himself curious. “So who do I have the… pleasure of addressing?”</p><p>The girl considers, seems to decide that she’ll have Sir Genie the Stout-Hearted over there leap on him again if this goes poorly, and answers. “I’m Nile. That’s Yusuf. You’re – you’re a – ”</p><p>“A bloodsucker,” Yusuf cuts in. “You can tell by the sour demeanor and the faint whiff of grave mold and self-loathing. Not to mention the fangs and the waxen pallor. Nothing that either of us needs to be mixed up with.”</p><p>Nile recoils. “You were going to drink my <em>blood?”</em></p><p>“Not without – ” However impossible it may be for a cold-blooded creature, Nicolò can feel his cheeks heating. “Not without asking.”</p><p>She looks at him scathingly. “Is that supposed to make it <em>better?”</em></p><p>No, Nicolò thinks grimly. Not really. He doesn’t think that launching into a long-winded explanation of how he hates that fact even more than she does is going to help him very much. He can see shutters opening – all this bare-knuckled supernatural brawling hasn’t exactly been quiet – and reacts instinctively. He catches Yusuf by the arm. “Come on, down here.”</p><p>Yusuf jerks back and stares at him incredulously, but they manage to refrain from a new argument long enough to scuttle into a more deserted block of the neighborhood. Then the djinn repeats, “Why were you following us? Just for sport?”</p><p>“I thought – ” Nicolò tries to make a casual gesture at Nile’s ring. “That’s just rather – rather pretty, isn’t it?”</p><p>This is yet another mistake. It’s not pretty – it is, seen at close range, banged and broken, and this just makes it sound as if he was <em>also </em>planning to rob her before committing however many other violations upon her person. Yet the sheer scale of how greatly he is fucking this up summons a disbelieving laugh from Nile, rather than an accusation. “You are a piece of <em>work.”</em></p><p>“I’m sorry.” Nicolò looks down at his feet. All this excitement and he still hasn’t fed. If he finishes off this evening from hell by swooning dead away, it feels fitting. “I wasn’t – ” She has no reason to believe him, but he wants to say it anyway. “I wasn’t – I promise I wasn’t going to hurt you. The bloodsuckers – the vampires – I know what they’re like. I wouldn’t do that.”</p><p>Nile surveys him, wary but curious. Finally she says, “I apologize for, uh. For the cheap shot.”</p><p>“I don’t.” Yusuf’s arms are folded firmly across his chest, and he regards Nicolò with flinty dislike. “I’m willing to do it a few more times for good measure.”</p><p>Nicolò tries to adopt a protective stance without being obvious about it. “Why are you two – ” He wonders what on earth the correct word here might be. “Allies?”</p><p>“None of your business.” Yusuf reaches out for Nile and shepherds her off down the alley like an officious chaperon. Over his shoulder he adds, “And I <em>will </em>find out who your sire is and what you’re doing in Jerusalem, bloodsucker. Attack us again, and I won’t be so merciful.”</p><p>Nicolò opens his mouth in exasperation, even as he’s not sure if he’s planning to shout at Yusuf or confess that he wasn’t lying, he doesn’t know, he has never known a literally God damned thing. Their eyes lock in a peculiar silent challenge. Nicolò remembers the feeling of that flame-forged flesh pressing up against his, like the heat of the life he has lost. For all that Yusuf has repeatedly beaten him up and insulted him, it makes Nicolò ache in an entirely different way. <em>I don’t want to be this creature. I know you hate it. So what do you think I feel?</em></p><p>There’s a whoosh and a whirl of dust, and in the next instant, both djinn and girl are gone. So they’re definitely working together, and Nicolò has probably attracted the collective ire and enmity of all the jinn in Jerusalem, just because this night hadn’t gone poorly enough already. <em>I need to get out of here. </em>Grab some books and put distance between himself and the city until this ridiculous Ring hunt simmers down. And if he does run into the murderous, looting Genoese mercenaries en route… to say the least, he has frustration that sorely needs venting, and King Baldwin might even thank him for the service. Jesus, what a disaster.</p><p>It takes Nicolò the rest of the night to find a feed, which he does from a pretty young man who is quite amenable to having Nicolò bite his neck. Indeed if done correctly, the feed can be deeply pleasurable for humans, and it helpfully adds one more thing for Nicolò to feel guilty about, because he wouldn’t be a fucking Catholic, undead or otherwise, if he didn’t. He does feel much better, at least physically. All of his Nile-and-Yusuf-inflicted indispositions have been smoothed away, along with his bone-deep physical fatigue, and he practically skips back to his house. Pack up, wait for the next nightfall, and run as far from Jerusalem as the hours of darkness will take him. He’ll work out the rest later.</p><p>Yet even as Nicolò opens the door and crosses the threshold, he can sense something wrong. There is an unfamiliar smell – two unfamiliar smells – in the air, and the bitter taint of magic. Not that of annoying handsome djinn either, which was his first thought. Witches. Two witches. The place has been thoroughly worked over, picked clean as carrion bones, and even as Nicolò swears and runs to the desk, he somehow knows what he’s going to see. And indeed, like yet another punch, that is exactly what he does.</p><p>The <em>Key of Solomon </em>is gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The lost city of Petra, the capital of the ancient Nabataean Kingdom, is not normally a place that the jinn venture for long. On the surface this is surprising, as it seems to be just the sort of thing that they love: abandoned by humans for almost half a millennium, only the wind whisking through its splendid buildings carved into the rosy cliffs, accessed by the narrow Siq that opens up into a magical stone city in the desert. It is ideal for settlement, and indeed any of the Seven Kings, always on the lookout to expand their territory at the expense of their neighbors, could move in and take it over. Yet this has not happened. First, though jinn do love skulking in caves, they find it difficult to live there for too long, cut off from the sun and fire and air; they are all inherently claustrophobic. The high walls and deep gorges of Petra shielded the humans who once lived here, but they would quickly turn mazelike and maddening for the jinn. Secondly, through whatever legend embroidered and picked over however many times, Petra is rumored to be cursed. Too many djinn know a djinn who knew a djinn who knew a djinn who went to Petra and never came back, there is supposedly a good reason why the humans left, and whatever dark malevolence lies upon it is capable of gulping down even the higher spirits. The cause is variously fingered as a rogue ifrit, a lingering hex from the earthquake that destroyed much of it in the Christians’ fourth century AD, some Roman sorcerer leaving an eternal working to trap them, or whatever else. There are still a few human nomad tribes who live in the area, but the city itself is empty, and has stayed that way for a long time.</p><p>That, therefore, is the brilliant reason that Yusuf has decided to fly here posthaste. It isn’t that far from Jerusalem, only about a hundred-odd miles due south, and it is a journey of only a few hours on the back of the wind, though Nile’s incessant clinging and frantic attempts not to look down make it less enjoyable than usual. When they finally swoop down on the moonlit sands and land at the towering dark mouth of the Siq, she manages to sputter, “What the – I thought we were – why did we – ?”</p><p>“We needed to get out of Jerusalem.” Yusuf gingerly stretches out a cramp. “There’s clearly no way you can wear that thing around the city. It got you chased by ghuls one night and bloodsuckers the next. We’re going to leave it in here for safekeeping.”</p><p>Nile stares down the dim, narrow gorge of blasted sandstone with patent suspicion. “In there?”</p><p>“Something like that.” Yusuf starts off, only to realize she isn’t following. “Come on!”</p><p>“No,” Nile repeats. “I’m not going in there. Not before a few more answers. You were supposed to protect me, and instead you leave it up to me to beat up that man? That – vampire?”</p><p>“I would have intervened if I thought he was going to win. And I <em>did </em>intervene, obviously. But it was very funny to watch, you must admit.”</p><p>Nile glares at him. “I don’t think so.”</p><p>“Fine, next time, I will ensure you don’t get your hands dirty, though you did admirably on your own.” Yusuf starts toward the Siq again, only to see that she still isn’t budging. “I’ll explain more once we get to Petra, it’s a walk of about a mile if you’ve had enough flying for the evening. Then – ”</p><p>“You’ll explain now.” Nile points a finger at him, and the cold thrall of the Ring’s power washes over Yusuf, turning his stomach in a sickening swoop of nausea and forcing him to his knees. He doesn’t think she did that on purpose, exactly, but she’s definitely getting better about controlling the power – another reason it might be wise to separate her from it now, before she really gets on a roll. “This still doesn’t make sense. You’ve barely told me anything. Who were we talking to, who called you Yusuf? What is this ring? Why are we hiding it here? And this is even <em>before </em>the fact that I nearly got bitten by a surprisingly polite Frankish vampire, so – ”</p><p>Yusuf debates what to say. She is turning out to be decidedly less wide-eyed and pliable than he hoped, and even if it <em>was</em> funny to watch her thrash Nicolò di Genova, it is an obvious warning that she might feel justified in doing the same to him. And if she bound him with the Ring beforehand, he might not be able to fight back, and <em>he </em>does not intend to embarrass himself in similar fashion. “Your ring is… special,” he starts at last, which is a feeble answer and something she can clearly see for herself. “I don’t know how exactly, but it’s not something we can risk anyone getting their hands on, not until we know more. My people don’t come here, they think the place is cursed. So if we can hide it, we can keep it out of sight until we do know.”</p><p>“Can we?” Nile folds her arms. “I’ll agree that I don’t want to be chased by supernatural creatures every time I set foot outside, but if I give up the ring, what guarantee do I have that you’re going to keep your end of the bargain? Or that you’ll protect me from whatever’s after me?”</p><p>Confound it. Of course she wants to get into the weeds of magical law. Yusuf curses to himself, suddenly experiencing an unwanted sympathy for Nicolò di Genova getting his backside handed to him by this girl. “The wish has already been made and is still in force until I complete it,” he says. “That doesn’t depend on whether or not you physically have the Ring.”</p><p>Nile regards him suspiciously. “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”</p><p>“You were the one who started this!” Yusuf kicks a small rock, which flies away into the night and explodes into sparks. “Do you want to be eaten by ghuls?”</p><p>“Obviously not. Who were you talking to in Jerusalem?”</p><p>Yusuf swears under his breath. “An… old friend of mine. He also wants a magical ring.”</p><p>“This ring?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Maybe.”</p><p>“So why not just give it to him?”</p><p>“Because that friend’s father is the most powerful king of our entire people, the ruler who ordered me banished from Jerusalem, someone who already lords it over the rest of the jinn including my tribe, and isn’t really someone who needs more unlimited magic and control over us, that’s why.” Yusuf stares moodily at the fine-dusted blur of stars across the night sky. “I’m trying to figure out some way to stall this. They won’t be fooled for long. If they know that they had it under their nose, and then I let it slip away, I won’t just be banished. I’ll be executed.”</p><p>Nile looks at him askance, as if she can’t figure out what his motives are. Does he want to save his neck? Does he want to reconcile with his people? Does he want to be lauded as a great hero, the one who found the long-lost Ring and returned it in splendor? But the tales of what Sulaiman did with it are as horrifying as much as they are heroic, especially to the jinn. They were enslaved, bridled, stripped of their essential nature, forced to work as brute labor to build the Temple and to accept a law that was not theirs, mastered and broken by a human who used their endless gifts in the service of his own power and glory, not their own. Yusuf is not the only one who has deeply torn feelings on the prophet-king that the Banu Zawba’ah, who are almost all Muslim, would otherwise like to venerate. Finally Yusuf says, “I promise, I will carry out my obligation to protect you regardless of whether you physically possess the ring. But I can’t do that if every creature in the world is after us. That’s why I want to leave it here.”</p><p>“And this is the best place? A cursed city that your people are afraid of?”</p><p>“At least it means they won’t go looking here.” Yusuf glances around shiftily, because he has no intention of being taken off guard by another ironically timed capture. “If I wanted to hand you and it over, I would have done that when I had the chance. This buys us time to regroup and decide what to do without constant pursuit. All right?”</p><p>At last, Nile nods grudgingly, and Yusuf blows out a breath; he has had easier times dealing with the Black King’s hordes, and that is saying something. He leads the way into the dark slit of the Siq, their footsteps crunching in the dark sand, as the high stone walls rise up and up and up overhead. At places the gorge is no more than ten feet wide, and the shadows are so thick that Yusuf conjures up a fistful of flame to light the way. Nile looks at it with startled eyes; she’s flown through the air with him, she’s certainly getting used to magic, but seeing a man hold fire in his bare hands is still something. Then at last, they round the last bend and see the magnificent façade of Khaznet el-Far’oun, one of the most splendid temples in old Petra, looming out of the darkness in front of them. Yusuf’s flame only illuminates its lower reaches, the elegant columns and statues, as a second level of pillars and carvings reaches toward the top of the cliff. Nile’s jaw drops. “This is beautiful.”</p><p>“It is,” Yusuf acknowledges. Humans do sometimes make lovely things, in between all their orgies of pointless destruction. It is just them and the brilliant stars overhead, the moon gilding the clifftops, and the wind whirls the dust around their feet like Sufi dervishes. He glances around again, checking that they are still alone, then moves down the path to one of the smaller, humbler buildings that bracket the Khaznet. He pushes open the half-rotted door, raising his hand to illuminate the echoing, pitch-dark chambers within, carved deep into the sandstone. He can hear water running nearby, bubbling up from Petra’s perpetual spring, another feature that makes this place a godsend in the arid desert. “Come on.”</p><p>Nile follows him in, nervous but warming to the adventure. They make their way to the back, hands in front of their faces in case of unexpectedly stumbling into something unpleasant, some massive spiderweb or other animal’s nest, and down a set of narrow stone steps to a tiny cellar. This was probably a space to keep food or drink or other perishable goods in the cool dark, and Yusuf thinks it should do well enough. He beckons. “Give me the amphora.”</p><p>Nile still has it with her – the clay vessel that she acquired in Jerusalem, before Nicolò di Genova interfered and thus delayed this venture. She hands it over, and Yusuf works several complicated spells to reinforce the container and make it look like any other crumbling, ancient vessel worth no notice. Then he holds it out to her. “Drop the ring in there.”</p><p>“Are you sure about this?” Nile’s face reflects uncertainly in the light of the fireball, now bobbing in midair between the two of them. “If we have it, and we give it away, and someone else gets it who shouldn’t, isn’t that on us?”</p><p>“Nobody else is going to get it,” Yusuf says, more confidently than he feels. He has to look away from the open mouth of the amphora. It’s technically not a lamp, but Sulaiman’s binding law would apply to him if for some reason Nile decided to blow up their tentative arrangement and command him to enter it. <em>And people wonder why jinn don’t like small spaces.</em> The weight of all the earth and stone above is already pressing down on him just from a short time spent in this cellar, prickling cold fingers down his back, and he’s eager to get out. Petra is beautiful, there is no denying it, but it’s clear why his people have not made a settlement here. Even before any rumors of a curse, it inexorably drags them down.</p><p>At last, Nile reaches for the Ring, pulls it off her finger with one jerk as if wanting it done before she can change her mind, and drops it into the amphora with a resounding thud, as if it is much heavier than one insubstantial golden circlet. Yusuf wedges in a wax seal, works several more spells, and carries the amphora like a sleeping viper over to the darkest and dustiest corner of the cellar. He buries it among the other detritus, sprinkles some more on top, and finally, when he can be sure that absolutely nobody could possibly know it was here even if they were deliberately searching for it, brushes the dust off his hands. “Let’s go.”</p><p>They climb out of the cellar and leave the building, and Yusuf heaves a grateful, involuntary breath at the sight of the night sky overhead once more. Noticing his discomfort, Nile glances at him curiously. “You don’t like being underground.”</p><p>“None of my people do.” Yusuf finds himself oddly willing to keep talking to the girl, stubborn as she is. It’s been a long time since he had anything so simple as a friend, even as he reminds himself to guard against becoming too fond of her. For the time being, she is still his master, and just because she has valiantly hung in during a few foolish magical adventures does not mean that he needs to forget how it goes with humans. As soon as she sees the use in him, understands what she really has, she’ll make the usual wishes, and like all the other humans with a spark of goodness and care, she will be twisted and twisted until none of that is left. Power and ambition and greed will win. They always do.</p><p>They retrace their steps down the Siq and emerge into the midnight desert, as Yusuf debates what to do next. Keeping their distance from Jerusalem seems wise; the implicit understanding with Sa’id was that he could return to the city as long as it was in service of tracking down the Ring, and since he has just hidden that exact object down a dark hole in Petra, that avenue has taken an indefinite detour. Yusuf tries to think of any magical libraries that he and Nile could stroll into, since the easiest way to fix this is to learn how to just break the bond between him, her, and the Ring. After all, jinn are excellent at finding the tiniest of technical loopholes. But in this case, it’s exactly the vagueness of Nile’s wish that is screwing them over. Because protecting her from a still-unknown enemy is such a broad task, fulfillable in any number of possible ways, there is no way to quantify when it has been completed. Yusuf entertains the fond hope that now that they <em>have </em>(temporarily) disposed of the Ring, she’s no longer a target, ergo he is free to go. That satisfies the essential spirit of the thing, right? Close enough?</p><p>Yusuf considers just leaping into the air and flying away, but leaving Nile stuck out here by herself in the desert, thus to die of thirst and heat, seems a little too cruel, and they <em>did </em>make a deal. He needs to think harder. There is an excellent magical library in Toledo, in Iberia, which is one of the cities ruled by Shamhurish. The lord of Thursday, the planet Jupiter, the color purple, and the metal tin is the other Muslim, aside from Zawba’ah, out of the Seven Jinn Kings; he converted after an encounter with Muhammad (saww), went on hajj with the Prophet and his companions, and serves as a Qadi for the sharia courts of his tribes. As far as Yusuf knows, the Banu Shamhurish have no (current) quarrel with the Banu Zawba’ah, though it’s always tricky to turn up on a rival king’s territory unannounced. Toledo was conquered by the Christians in 1085, but that did not affect Shamhurish’s rule; the jinn kings are used to maintaining their authority no matter which sect of humans fancies themselves to be in charge. It’s a long flight to Iberia, which will take even Yusuf several days, but he can make it, though they’ll have to stop periodically on Nile’s account. He doesn’t have a better idea, and it’s preferable to wandering in circles in Jerusalem, hoping to stay one step ahead of the ifrit. Therefore –</p><p>Just then, Nile lets out a startled sound and points at something behind them. “Is it supposed to be doing that?”</p><p>Yusuf whirls around, looks – and feels his heart skip an unpleasant beat. On the southern horizon, blotting out the stars as it rises up like an endless, spectral tidal wave, he can see a billowing black cloud, kicked up by magic and the thunder of galloping hooves. Even from here, the particular inky-blackness of the cloud and the taste of its sorcerous storm, as clouds begin to close over the moon, are unmistakable. Speak of the devil, or rather the Black King’s hordes, because that’s who it is. These are the Night Riders of Al-Malik Al-Aswad – Barqan the Black King, lord of Wednesday, Mercury, blue, and brass, worshiper of the Ancient Fire, master of the most dazzling magical strongholds in the world, conqueror of five hundred thousand marid, and no friend to the human race. They can only be out here because Yusuf unwittingly trespassed onto their territory, if the Black King decided to lay claim to Petra, or because they sensed the presence both of a human and something far more powerful than a human. Such as, say, the Ring of Sulaiman, which Barqan must want even more than the Golden One. And in that case –</p><p>“Run!” Yusuf shouts at Nile, which is a pointless thing to do when confronted with the Night Riders, but there you have it. Magic whips crack out with scything hisses; he tries to take to the air, but they have already coiled around his ankles, and drag him down to crash painfully into the sand. Nile is ahead of him, running for all she’s worth, and Yusuf tries to get a hand free to cast a protective spell. Another lash grabs him by the wrist and jerks him ferociously backward, making him do three full revolutions of a midair somersault, and when he lands, he can see the demonic red eyes of the Night Riders’ huge black steeds, ridden by whooping jinn warriors – Barqan’s loyal chieftains – who draw back bows of polished bone, the arrow tips gleaming with iron. Even if he is Banu Zawba’ah, Yusuf will have a very bad time if he gets hit with all those at once, and he throws his arms uselessly over his head. Well, this is one way to solve their mess. Get him ignominiously killed by Barqan’s warboys in the middle of nowhere, barely an hour after getting rid of the Ring. Nile will also not be enjoying her life soon, and –</p><p>Yusuf braces himself, sees Sa’id offering him a hand, his mother at the gate of their house in Cairo, Musa’s bright boyish smile that turned to a scream, and completely inexplicably, Nicolò di Genova underneath him in Jerusalem. He closes his eyes and prepares to die –</p><p>And then, from above, there’s a sizzling flash of white-hot magic, as something swoops overhead and hurls a lightning bolt into the sand directly in front of the charging Night Riders. The horses scream and rear, throwing their riders, who roll free and fumble for their saifs, but then another lightning bolt crashes down with a smell of burning and enough flash to momentarily illuminate the entire desert. Just as Yusuf is thinking wildly that apparently Zeus has come to their rescue, something – someone – lands next to him and untangles his legs and arms from the whips. It’s a woman dressed in the garb of a warrior, but this is far from any ordinary woman, and not even because of the battle-ax. He feels it instantly. <em>Witch.</em></p><p>There is, however, no time to dwell on the question of why two witches – it’s definitely two, he can see the second one harrying the Night Riders with a volley of well-placed lightning bolts, dodging and darting as they try to retaliate – have just saved their lives. He’s free, and he kicks off and soars into the air, scanning madly over the dark desert for Nile. She’s still running – she’s very impressive, this little human – even as one of the Night Riders, having avoided the tragic pile-up of his fellows, is galloping after her at full speed. Just as he is about to snatch her up, Yusuf dive-bombs like a hawk, grabs Nile under the armpits, and accelerates up into the sky so hard that he can feel atmospheric friction burning against his face. There’s still a messy engagement going on behind him, bursts of dazzling light and thunder, as he flies blindly, Nile dangling like a temptingly juicy worm on a fisherman’s hook. Just get away.</p><p>He can feel his strength running out, knows that they need to stop, and picks a relatively sheltered spot, with enough trees to signify the presence of an oasis, veering down and just managing to give Nile a comparatively soft landing before he spins out of control, crashes into a tall palm, and thus is laid out flat by a fusillade of falling coconuts. He loses consciousness for a moment or possibly longer, and when he opens his eyes, is greeted by Nile’s upside-down and deeply disapproving face. At least that’s what it quickly changes to, from an expression of abject worry. “Ah,” she says, sitting back on her heels. “You’re awake.”</p><p>“Mmmph.” Yusuf is not up to his usual standards of scintillating repartee just yet. His head aches like the devil. The desert is once more dark and quiet. “How long was I out?”</p><p>“Long enough.” Nile regards him coolly. “I thought getting rid of the ring was supposed to <em>stop </em>making magical monsters chase us every single night.”</p><p>“Yes, well, I may have miscalculated.” With a groan, Yusuf sits upright, waiting for the world to stop spinning. “And those weren’t just any magical monsters. Those were the Night Riders of the Black King. If he’s involved, we’re in even more trouble.”</p><p>“Let me guess,” Nile says. “Another one of the jinn kings who has too much power and not enough common sense?”</p><p>“Something like that.” Yusuf spits out a beetle and grimaces. “Is there water?”</p><p>“Back there.” Nile tilts her head. “Who saved us?”</p><p>“I don’t know exactly.” Yusuf pauses. “Two witches.”</p><p>Nile gets a look as if witches are <em>also </em>real, of course they are, why wouldn’t they be, she just learns things like this all the time. There’s a distant roll of thunder, making Yusuf jump, but this one appears to be natural. They are a long way from anywhere, Nile (and he) will need to eat eventually, and if the plan is still to make for Toledo, they should get out of here before the Night Riders regroup and come looking for them again. But even Yusuf can’t make another long flight right now, and he badly needs to rest. Jinn are resilient and can take a lot of pounding, but they’re not indestructible. A fire would help, but it would also draw attention.</p><p>He dozes uneasily, constantly startled awake by the sounds of the desert, as Nile curls up and tries to sleep. The stars wheel overhead, then begin to fade. It’s moving toward the still greyness of predawn, the world as silent as if they are the only two creatures in it, when Yusuf hears crunching outside the oasis, two sets of footsteps moving through the trees. He bolts upright and raises a fireball, as Nile snorts groggily and opens her eyes with an expression as if to ask if the next attack could <em>please </em>wait until she gets some sleep. But this –</p><p>The undergrowth parts, and two women emerge. One is tall and looks like an Amazon, while the other one is smaller and appears to hail from somewhere in the Far East. They both appear to be fresh from battle, windblown but exhilarated, and as she stares at them, Nile almost jumps out of her skin in sudden recognition. “Wait!” she blurts out. “I know you! I saw you two in the tavern the first night I was in Jerusalem! You were watching me!”</p><p>“You,” Yusuf interjects. “You were the witches who – back there? With the Night Riders? You saved us?”</p><p>“Yes.” The taller woman speaks for the first time, unpinning her veil from beneath her bronze helmet and dropping both of them on the ground with a casual, competent swagger. Her hair is long and dark, tangled in a messy braid, and her eyes are piercing. “My name is Andromache of Scythia. This is Quynh. You’re welcome for earlier. And now you two idiots are going to tell us <em>exactly </em>what you’ve done with the Ring of Solomon.”</p><p>***</p><p>It's something like Nicolò’s fifth round of pounding on the door – it’s the hour of Prime, which is past the end of the day for him and barely its beginning for everyone else – by the time Rabbi Samuel finally opens the door a crack, clearly thinking that it might be a mob. Only one hand is in sight; the other one must be clutching a weapon, his family wakeful and wary in the room beyond. Nicolò can sense their fright, and a wave of shame sweeps over him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I – I did not think. I just need to speak with you. Urgently.”</p><p>The rabbi regards him with one eyebrow arched, but Nicolò is well known to them, and he steps aside to let him in. Nicolò bows and apologizes to the rabbi’s wife and children, as Samuel leads him through the house, down the steps, and into the cellar that he uses as a workroom. It is even more of a literary labyrinth than Nicolò’s, crowded with aged parchments written in faded inks, all in some varied stage of translation or transliteration. The Torah, Talmud, and Midrash scrolls are stored on the shelves above, and the desk contains the remnants of half-finished meals that Rebbitzin Hadassah has brought down here in a vain attempt to remind her husband to eat. Rabbi Samuel glances at Nicolò as if the sight might be displeasing, and Nicolò worries that it is the Jewish nature of the food that the rabbi thinks might offend him, even if they have worked together for several years. “I am not yet hungry,” he says quickly. “I ate earlier.”</p><p>“Ah.” Rabbi Samuel moves the plates, dusts his hands off, and turns to Nicolò. “Well, what is so important that you must barge into my home at the crack of dawn and frighten my family half to death?”</p><p>“I am sorry,” Nicolò says again. “I just – your manuscript. The <em>Key of Solomon. </em>It’s been stolen.”</p><p>He waits for shock or surprise or outrage, anything that would be warranted given that this could likewise mean the rabbi’s life if it fell into the wrong hands, but Samuel ben Kalonymus does not appear particularly surprised. “Yes?” he says. “And?”</p><p>“Did you – ” Nicolò has the sudden feeling, just as he had with Nile and Yusuf earlier, that he does not actually have any idea what is going on here. “Did you know?”</p><p>“Do you really think,” the rabbi says, with a distinct and not unwarranted sharpness, “that I would lend out a book purporting to be powerful ancient magic, of which my own translation would put me squarely in the center of suspicion even <em>before </em>the fact that I am a Jew and we are no longer supposed to reside in this city, to a creature with remarkable and unusual abilities, and then altogether neglect to keep any sort of eye on it, or take the most elementary of precautions for its preservation? What exactly do you make of me?”</p><p>“I…” Nicolò gapes at him. “Wait, did you say <em>creature? </em>How can – how long – ”</p><p>“ – have I known that you were an <em>alukah?” </em>Rabbi Samuel finishes briskly. “Since, oh, the second time we met, I believe. Solomon himself speaks of them in Proverbs, you know. For a man who was once a Christian priest, I would expect you to recall the holy books better.”</p><p>Nicolò’s mouth is still open, so he shuts it. Finally he manages, “You never said anything.”</p><p>“That seems to be a man’s own business to disclose.” The rabbi continues to regard him levelly. “Even one who has become afflicted with the curse of Lilith. If I thought you were the sort of demon that would do such things as are said to be inherent in your nature, I would never have spoken to you again, far less brought you into my home and helped to instruct you in the secret texts of the kabbalah. But as a Jew, I know something about a man deciding you are a demon before you have ever spoken to him or had a chance to prove otherwise, so I did not. I suspect that I know the reasons for your interest in this. Am I wrong?”</p><p>Nicolò is still several steps behind in this whole conversation, as this night has not yet remotely succeeded in wrong-footing him to the full extent of its abilities. “So you know about – ?”</p><p>“What?” The rabbi raises the other eyebrow. “Magic? It would be rather dense of me to work on a text on that particular topic if I did not, wouldn’t you say?”</p><p>“Yes, just…” Nicolò sputters. <em>“</em>You always – I didn’t think you believed in it being, well. <em>Real.”</em></p><p>“You have not met many Jews, have you?” Rabbi Samuel considers him with something that looks distinctly like pity for a supposed man of the cloth’s utter theological ineptitude. “It is only a Christian who is informed from on high of the single correct doctrine that he must believe, or else be assailed for blasphemy and heresy. A Jew knows that it is his right to argue. With the text, with the authority that gave it, with the Almighty himself. What do you think the very name <em>Israel </em>means? ‘Wrestles with G-d.’ Indeed, for many months after the sack and slaughter of my people within the walls of our own Holy City, I found myself wondering, as our nation often has after its calamities, whether the Almighty was good or worthy of worship or even extant at all. Just because I ask endless questions of something and do not presuppose it to be automatically authentic, demanding my belief rather than earning it, does not mean that I consider it all worthless and false. Sometimes it is comforting to know, in the dark of my doubts, that so long as I <em>do </em>what is prescribed of my people – keep the commandments of the Torah, live according to the law – I am still a Jew no matter what I may believe at any given time. It is better that way, to know that one human moment of weakness will not bring the entire temple crumbling down. It does not put the burden on me to constantly believe what cannot be seen and which sometimes seems to be anything but empirically proven. Your Christians could do with a great deal more of that, and I may say so.”</p><p>“I…” Nicolò looks down. It’s desperately tempting to keep having a good old religious debate with the rabbi – with someone who will entertain and indeed welcome his questions about his exile from his homeland and his own humanity, who understands it on a deep ancestral level – but it’s getting them off the subject. “How did you know the manuscript was stolen?”</p><p>“You are not the only one with secrets.” Rabbi Samuel ponders a moment longer, then makes a gesture to a darkened corner of the study. “Come out, Yossele.”</p><p>There is a shuffle and a rustle from beneath a particularly large stack of parchments, and then something – some<em>one? </em>– trundles out into the low lamplight. (Rabbi Samuel must take particular care with open flames, especially since he cannot risk open windows where neighbors could peer in – another way, Nicolò thinks poignantly, in which they are united.) It is – he is unsure whether it is a person or a thing. It must be alive, it is moving on its own, but it is unlike any being he has ever seen. It is small, squat, and forged from clay mixed from the banks of the river Jordan; he recognizes the scent. It is about four feet tall, with crudely human features and an etched orb embedded in its forehead, which is carved and painted in likeness of an eye. It comes to a halt and waits expectantly for an order, as Nicolò makes a small sound of shock. “What is – what <em>is </em>that thing?”</p><p>“It is called a golem.” Rabbi Samuel looks at him placidly, as if to remark that if Nicolò had made his own confession in a timely fashion, they could have proceeded to this stage of their acquaintance much sooner. Of course the rabbi was not about to risk being the first to reveal his full powers – trusted or not, Nicolò is still an <em>alukah </em>and a Catholic in a city ruled by crusaders, and translation of a few occult texts is a far cry from animating a clay creature with blood sorcery. “It is an ancient Jewish piece of magic, intended to replicate the way the Almighty created Adam in the Garden of Eden, though of course I am not the Almighty and cannot raise it to full humanity. It is given sentience by the <em>shem, </em>the scroll inked with my blood, to carry out my commands, though it cannot speak or think for itself. I watch and control it through the eye, of which I have its twin. It can go unnoticed when it pleases, and moves around the city after dark on my errands. It is how my family has survived, fetching us food and drink and other necessities, since we cannot leave here for fear of detection. It has been standing guard on your house ever since I gave you the <em>Key.”</em></p><p>“Ah.” Nicolò should be offering something more intelligent to the conversation, but he’s still rather flattened. This does answer several questions about how Rabbi Samuel and his family survived the sack and remained hidden ever since. “Did you call it Yossele?”</p><p>“I did. That is its name. All creatures should have one.” Rabbi Samuel turns to the clay man and addresses it like a small child or family pet. “Can you tell us who did this thing, Yossele?”</p><p>The golem reaches up to its head – Nicolò finds its jerky movements both fascinating and unsettling – and pops out the painted eye, which it hands to its master. Rabbi Samuel takes it with a brief thanks and carries it over to another corner of the workroom, where a bowl of hammered silver has been filled with water. The rabbi passes the eye over the surface with murmured invocations, and the surface ripples as if in the breeze of an unfelt wind. All at once, a picture forms in the basin: two women undoing the wards on Nicolò’s door, stepping across the threshold, and going inside. The golem does not follow them and thus cannot see what they do in there, but when the women return, they are carrying a bulky package that definitely looks like the <em>Key. </em>The taller of the two glances around, and then they spring up into the air and are gone in a flash. Nicolò already determined that it was two witches from their scent, and this only confirms it. Two witches powerful and brazen enough to break into an unknown vampire’s lair and steal his (well, borrowed) property, evidently with no concern for retribution. These are no paid latchkeys or nervous underlings. They know exactly what they’re doing.</p><p>“Where are they now?” Nicolò urges. “Is there a way to find that out?”</p><p>Rabbi Samuel hands the eye back to Yossele, who replaces it and clunks back into its hiding place at a word of dismissal from its master. This invocation is longer and more complex, and it seems to be fighting the rabbi, perhaps from the spells that the witches have cast to hide their trail. But at last, they obtain a shaky, flickering picture of a desert oasis, somewhere out far in the wild and nowhere near Jerusalem. The two witches are there. As are –</p><p>Oh, Jesus wept.</p><p>The image is faint and poor, and it flashes out of existence before Nicolò can get a better look, but even that is enough. He is more stumped than ever, even as part of him immediately suspects that Nile and Yusuf were assigned to distract him so the witches could burgle his house without interruption. But Nicolò himself chose to go after them, unless they knew he was there and dangled themselves as live bait. How do the four of them know each other? <em>Do </em>they know each other? Are they in league with potentially dozens of scheming supernatural partners? Why would the same witches who stole the manuscript then go after the human girl and the arrogant, obnoxious, viper-tongued, shit-witted half-arsed son of a pig and a Jezebel djinn? (Not that Nicolò took it personally or anything.) But even as he turns it over, the answer presents itself. The <em>Key of Solomon </em>is about, well, Solomon. And the girl’s ring –</p><p><em>Oh, Christ. </em>Tell him that it’s not. It might, in fact, still not be. But it appears to be very clear that if nothing else, the witches seem to think there’s a connection, and have gone to considerable risk in pursuing it. Nicolò turns to Rabbi Samuel. “Do you know where that was?”</p><p>“I cannot be sure. Somewhere in the Ammonite desert, perhaps.” The rabbi studies the water intently, frowning. “In any case, we can imagine that they are likely to be gone before you arrive. That was your intent, I expect? Tracking them down and forcing them to return it?”</p><p>Something about the rabbi’s voice makes Nicolò wonder if this is a trick question. “Was I supposed to do something else?”</p><p>“It would be advisable to get the<em> Key </em>back, yes,” Rabbi Samuel says. “But you and I must both suspect that it was not stolen simply for an interest in antiquarian texts. This might even be designed to goad you into doing exactly such a thing, and if that was so, neither of us can say what would happen. Whatever you do, Nicolò, think on it carefully.”</p><p>“Yes, of course.” As if he has spent the years since his transformation doing anything but, over and over. Thinking has rarely gotten him anywhere, and usually just makes him feel worse. “And if I was to retrieve it, you would want it back? I would give it back, of course. It’s your work, I know how much it means to you, and I’m the one who lost it.”</p><p>“Yes,” the rabbi says, “but there is something else I must ask you, if you feel yourself indebted to me for it. It grieves me beyond any measure to ask this, but you can see that my family and I must leave this place. There is nothing remaining for us. I cannot walk out of my own house in daylight, travel a few moments to the Holy of Holies, and pray at the Wailing Wall. I am closer to the Almighty than any other member of my people, and yet I am so unbearably far away. I lived in Iberia and France as a young man before I decided to come to Jerusalem, for Jews could live here under the caliphate, even if subject to the jizya tax. I never imagined having to leave it, and I have tried as long as I could to stay. But this is no life, not anymore. So if you wish to do me and my family a service, help us get out of here. You are an <em>alukah, </em>you have abilities far beyond the usual. And you might come into contact with creatures who had the same.”</p><p>“So – what?” Nicolò stares at him. “You want me to help you go – where?”</p><p>“Speyer, I think.” Rabbi Samuel tries to keep his voice businesslike, but it trembles. “In Germany. I have family there, and there is a Hasidic community. It is as good a place as any for starting over. I do not know if your assistance would take the form of helping to escort us on the road and seeing that we did not meet with harm – Yossele is a good servant and assistant, but no soldier – or finding a way to speed our journey. My magic is purely scholarly and defensive. It would serve me nothing against men with swords.”</p><p>“I… I would have to think about it,” Nicolò says. “If neither of us can travel by daylight, there may be something we can work out. It seems we have both been cast out. The Almighty may have left me, but He was taken away from you, and I am sorry for that.”</p><p>Rabbi Samuel cocks his head. “Why do you say that? That Yahweh has left you?”</p><p>“I – ” Nicolò is flustered, because this question seems obvious enough to forestall any need for explanation. “I can’t set foot in a church, or on consecrated ground. Holy water and crucifixes and the Host all cause me pain. I’ve managed to live for three years in this city and I have to turn my face away from the religious splendor. I’m like you insofar as I can see it and I wish that I could go to it, but it has repudiated me. So I…” He trails off. “It’s hard not to feel forsaken.”</p><p>“It is a difficult thing, to be sure,” Rabbi Samuel says. “But you’ve known me for some time, have you not? Been in my house upon many occasions? I wear the tefillin on my arm, the scrolls of the holy books, and keep the Mosaic law. You have seen my menorah on the festival of Chanukah and the blood on the inside of my doorpost for Passover. Have you ever felt the same revulsion and rejection that you say it causes you to stand in a Christian church?”</p><p>Nicolò opens his mouth, then stops. It’s true that he’s never felt pushed out of Rabbi Samuel’s presence or his house, has taken down the Torah scrolls to help him with some pressing translation problem without any pain or struggle, never thought twice about it. It makes him wonder if he has missed something, if it is not <em>God</em> rejecting him, but the way in which the church became so insistent at casting out demons that it turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy. Nicolò already understood what it did to the Muslims and Jews of this city when the crusaders came, the slaughter of innocents held up as a higher purpose even if it manifestly was not. He has never extended the possibility of that grace, that innocence, to himself.</p><p>“I – ” His throat feels too thick, and he harrumphs. “You know, perhaps I should convert.”</p><p>“And I would, of course, advise you against doing that at least three times,” Rabbi Samuel says. “Possibly more. Besides, the life of my people is nothing to envy, even for an <em>alukah </em>who is used to living in the same way among Christians – though that might help you, it is true. If you will help me and my family get safely to Speyer and start a new life, I will not ask any other payment or compensation for the loss of the manuscript. I will not even necessarily insist on its return. I have lost everything else, have I not? It would not be surprising.”</p><p>The wry, painful resignation in his voice makes Nicolò’s heart twist. “I’ll find it for you,” he promises. “If you can tell me where those witches are, I will.”</p><p>“Hmmm.” Rabbi Samuel bends over the bowl again, stirring the surface of the water and muttering more invocations. Then he says, “It is the desert of the Ammonites, yes. Not that far from the old Nabataean city of Petra. Do you know where that is?”</p><p>“I can work it out.” Nicolò reminds himself that they will not stay where they are for the next twelve hours, and he cannot run across the desert in high heat and blazing sunlight. He can possibly track the witches’ scent – and for that matter, Nile and Yusuf’s. Since three of those four appear to be able to fly, that will throw a further wrench in the proceedings of tracking them down. “Thank you, Rabbi. I’ll come back and get you and your family to Speyer.”</p><p>“Thank you, Nicolò.” Rabbi Samuel considers him, then holds out his hand. “You will have many more years to live, I think. Possibly more than either of us can imagine. Even if I am old, return someday to me in Germany, and perhaps we can speak again of this.”</p><p>Nicolò tries to answer, but he only manages a nod. He reaches out to clasp the rabbi’s hand, and they nod to each other. Then Nicolò lets go, climbs the stairs back to the main house, apologizes again to Rebbetzin Hadassah and the children for the fright, and opens the front door to show himself out, grimacing at the sun on his face. It tingles like fine sharp needles, and he is still inclined to flinch away, but the thought remains in his head. <em>Perhaps God has not forsaken me after all. </em>It seems impossible and desperately lovely.</p><p>Nonetheless, there will be time for it later. Nicolò squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath (not much needed, but still comforting) and so, he prepares to go on a witch hunt.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’m sorry,” Nile says. “The Ring of <em>what?”</em></p><p>“Solomon.” The tall witch, the one who called herself Andromache, studies her with cool grey-green eyes. “Ancient magician-king of Israel, son of David? His Ring. Most powerful magical object to have ever existed. Did your companion somehow fail to mention that?”</p><p><em>“He very definitely did!” </em>Nile whirls on Yusuf, who is suddenly looking cornered. “Is that – is <em>that </em>what we just dropped down a dusty wine jug in a deserted city?! Were you actually planning to tell me that, or – I thought it was clearly some kind of talisman, but never – ”</p><p>“I was going to tell you,” Yusuf says feebly. “Eventually.”</p><p>“Oh?” Nile puts both hands on her hips and glares at Yusuf until even that fire-made creature is looking worried that he might imminently self-immolate. “When?”</p><p>The shorter witch, the Eastern one – Quynh? – hastily muffles a suspiciously laugh-sounding cough. “Well,” she remarks. “Her nerve is not in doubt, at least.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Andromache strides forward, cool and measured. “You said something about a dusty wine jug and a deserted city. Where? Petra?”</p><p>Nile bites her tongue. Angry as she is with the djinn for keeping this rather important piece of information to himself, not least because she has been chased by a nonstop parade of terrifying beasts ever since Diyab gave it to her, she doesn’t necessarily know if these newcomers can be trusted. <em>And why are you surprised? The story all along was that the jinn lie and manipulate humans to get what they want. You knew that. </em>She thought that she and Yusuf were forming an accidental rough camaraderie, but she cannot forget that she is in far over her head with creatures who could eradicate her with a flick of their fingers, and none of them are her friends. Even if she’s been enjoying the adventure, charging demonic hordes notwithstanding, this is a cold jolt of reality to remind her that this is not the <em>Thousand and One Nights – </em>or rather it is, but she is some hapless protagonist in the tales, rather than its safely removed storyteller. “Never mind.”</p><p>Andromache studies her intently, making Nile want to squirm under her scrutiny. Then she steps back to confer with Quynh; Nile strains, but she can’t make out the witches’ conversation. She suddenly wonders how they can understand each other at all. Yusuf has the jinn ability to speak any language he chooses, hence why they’ve been conversing in Amharic, but either the witches have a similar talent, just happened to also learn Amharic in the course of their travels, or Nile herself still has some lingering linguistic enchantment from her brief spell in possession of – <em>The, </em>evidently – Ring. She was still wearing it when they ran into Nicolò di Genova back in Jerusalem, so communication in that case can be explained, but she definitely does not have it now. She is not inclined to ask Yusuf for answers, at least not without some stringent method of ensuring truthfulness. Can she use another wish for that? It has felt wrong to force him to do anything, to take advantage of his magic, but maybe humans have to use wishes because jinn won’t be honest otherwise. She glares at him again, and he cringes.</p><p>Finally Andromache and Quynh break apart and turn back to the other two. “Seeing as we just rescued you from the Night Riders,” Andromache says, “I think it is undeniable that the tale is spreading. The Ring should never have been let back into the world again. It was supposed to die with Solomon. We saw what Asmodeus did with it, and – ”</p><p>At that she stops short, as Nile goggles at her. “You <em>saw </em>what Asmodeus did with it? But that was – Solomon reigned a thousand years before the birth of Christ. That’s over two <em>millennia </em>ago!”</p><p>There’s a pause. Then Quynh says, which is clearly an understatement, “We’re older than we look.”</p><p>“Great,” Nile says faintly. “More immortals.”</p><p>“And what are you exactly?” Yusuf glares at the women. “More bloodsuckers? Those we can do without.”</p><p>“If we were vampires, idiot,” Andromache says shortly, “trust me, you would know by now. What do you mean, <em>more </em>bloodsuckers? I take it you’ve already run into one?”</p><p>There’s another pause, as Nile considers that this conversation has thus far consisted of both sides revealing tidbits of dangerous intelligence seemingly by accident, and that either this is simple clumsiness or a daring gambit in hopes of tricking the other into a much bigger disclosure. With creatures of their age and stature, she shouldn’t mistake it for carelessness, and she keeps her mouth shut, aware that she is outclassed. Andromache and Quynh can’t really be two thousand years old, can they? Older? She doesn’t know how old Yusuf is, but it feels like he’s definitely junior by djinni standards. Young men of any species are prone to doing reckless and ill-advised things, and maybe some of Yusuf’s more questionable decisions can be explained by the simplest avenue. Nile doesn’t <em>want </em>to think that he’s up to some convoluted plot to trick and kill her, or maybe she just hopes that he isn’t. Maybe he had a good reason not to tell her? But the <em>Ring. </em>The Ring of <em>Solomon. </em>That definitely warrants at least <em>some </em>sort of heads-up.</p><p>“Fine, yes,” Yusuf says. “We ran into a vampire back in Jerusalem, before we came here. His name was Nicolò di Genova. He was <em>not </em>very bright.”</p><p>Andromache snorts, as if to remark that it takes one to know one. Evidently deciding not to venture down that accurate but time-wasting conversational avenue, she goes on, “We’ve been looking for the Ring ever since the rumors started to spread that it was back. If you must know, we were both priestesses in the service of the Queen of Saba. Sheba, as the later stories had it. You may recall the legend about her meeting with Solomon.”</p><p>Nile blinks hard. The Queen of Sheba is often held to be an Ethiopian heroine – her kingdom, Saba in the south of the Arabian peninsula, was a tributary of the Ethiopian crown at the time, and the Queen herself was thought to come from her part of Africa. “You <em>knew </em>her?!”</p><p>“Yes, we did.” There is something unreadable in Andromache’s eyes as she looks at Nile. “And we swore an oath to her that we would do whatever it took to stop Solomon’s power from being misused – either against the Sabans themselves, or against the rest of the world. If you want to help us do that, in the name of your queen and ours, tell us where the Ring is.”</p><p>Nile wavers. It’s admittedly a good speech, appealing to her patriotism and the memory of a much-beloved folk heroine, and the temptation to fob off the Ring once and for all, in the hands of someone who more or less can be counted on to know what they’re doing, is considerable. Nile was just complaining about her recent propensity to be constantly attacked by magical lunatics, after all, and this would free her both from any more of Yusuf’s version of events and the troublesome djinn himself. “What would you do with it if I did?”</p><p>“We would handle it,” Andromache says. “Put it somewhere it couldn’t do any more harm.”</p><p>“And I can trust that you just… are who you say?” Nile is going to avoid taking the word of any more magical creatures simply because they seemed honest at the time. “That you’re not secretly in league with someone even worse or – I don’t know, want it for yourselves? How can you possibly be that old? What kind of magic can do that?”</p><p>Yusuf looks approving at this evidence of healthy skepticism, though Nile shoots him a glare to remind him that he is still not allowed to criticize anyone else for failing to supply important details. For her part, Andromache seems briefly confounded. Perhaps she’s not used to humans challenging her or asking to prove herself. Then she says, exasperated, “Never mind. We can hash that out later, if we absolutely have to. Now just tell us, and – ”</p><p>“No,” Yusuf interrupts. “You can find it yourself, if you’re actually that powerful.”</p><p>Andromache eyes him like a lioness sizing up a gazelle. Something about her expression makes Nile think that this woman spends a lot of time beating up men who underestimate her. “We can fight for it if you want.”</p><p>Quynh rolls her eyes. Delicately, but she does. Then she steps forward to Andromache’s side, unslings the bow from her shoulder, and fits an arrow to the string, drawing it expertly to her ear. “Or I could just shoot him in the backside with iron. That might speed it up.”</p><p>Yusuf’s hands crackle with fire, warning the witches to try something if they dare, and while a full-scale throwdown might be entertaining, Nile is still dependent on one of these magical flying morons to get her out of the desert, and cannot permit all of them to decimate each other in spectacular and pointless displays. She clears her throat loudly, steps in between them even though it makes her heart skip a beat, and announces, “No fighting.”</p><p>She thinks Andromache might be impressed, but it’s hard to be sure. There’s a further tense moment, and then Andromache takes half a step back, as Quynh lowers her bow, and Yusuf grudgingly extinguishes his fingers. “Fine,” the tall witch says coolly. “How do you propose we solve this?”</p><p>Nile isn’t sure, honestly, but now she’s spoken up and inserted herself into the power struggle, and it’s too late to walk that back. “The Ring is in Petra, yes,” she goes on. “Like my companion said, if you’re actually who you say, it shouldn’t be a difficulty. You’re welcome to search.”</p><p>Andromache and Quynh glance at each other. Yusuf seems about to object, but Nile shoots him a searing look, and he shuts his mouth with a click. Then Andromache says curtly, “Fine. We’ll go have a look. But if someone else managed to find it first – ”</p><p>“Then you’ll track it down, right?” Nile looks back at them pointedly. “Isn’t that your job?”</p><p>The witches seem to want to say something to this, but they can’t. They take a quick drink of water from the oasis and refill their skins, then leap up into the bright-white sky and vanish in the glare of the sun. Even down here in the comparative shade, the heat is relentless. The soaring mountain highlands of Ethiopia can be cold and alpine, but Nile lives in the plains outside Lake Tsana, where it’s warm all year round – yet not to the scalding standard of the unforgiving desert. Her stomach is twisted into knots with hunger. She doesn’t know how long they have until Andromache and Quynh come back, or what might happen when they do, and she doesn’t intend to waste it. She whirls on Yusuf. “Explain. Now.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Yusuf shoots a look in the direction of the departed witches. “You just told them that it was in Petra, are you out of your – ”</p><p>“If they do find it, your magic isn’t as powerful as you think, and this entire plan was half-baked to start with, wasn’t it?” Nile folds her arms. “I’ve bought us some time to figure out what’s going on, and for <em>you </em>to give me a few straight answers. Is that the Ring of Solomon or not?”</p><p>“I don’t – ” Yusuf flails, realizes that nobody is coming to save him, and blows out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know for sure. But I’ve never seen anything remotely that powerful. And from what folk are saying, then yes, it’s been stolen or scavenged from Solomon’s tomb, and… I think it is. I should have told you, I just…” He trails off, and she realizes that he was very much hoping that he would never have to. “We should get out of here. I can fly a few more hours, and there has to be a cave or something similar where we can hide.”</p><p>“I’m not letting you take me anywhere just yet.” Nile remains staring at him stubbornly. “Who are the Seven Jinn Kings and what do they want?”</p><p>Yusuf shoots another look at the sky, as if he’s worried about more witches or jinn or other magical invaders descending from it, and shifts from foot to foot, clearly yearning to bust out of here in a whirlwind. “They rule the higher spirits from al-Andalus all the way to the Jade Gate in China. In Africa, in the Indus valley, in the empires of Asia. Some of these cities are shared with humans, and some of them are entirely magical and separate, only inhabited by our people. As I told you back in Jerusalem, Al-Maḏhab, the Golden One, is the High King and holds the Holy City. He thinks he’s entitled to the Ring of Solomon since he knew the man. It was his… emissaries that we had a chat with the other night, while you couldn’t see them.”</p><p>This is good, but Nile intends to keep Yusuf talking. “And? Who are the other kings?”</p><p>“The other six are Al-Abyad the White King, Al-Ahmar the Red King, Barqan the Black King – it was his minions we ran into last night – Shamhurish of the Thousand Rivers, Zawba’ah the Cyclone, and Maymun the Prosperous. Of the seven, you really do not want to cross Al-Maḏhab, Al-Ahmar, Barqan, and Maymun, since they’re leaders of infernal hosts and legions of ifrits. Your people call them archdemons.” Yusuf is speaking faster and faster. “I’m descended from Zawba’ah, he’s my great-grandfather. He and Shamhurish are the Muslim kings. The others worship the Ancient Fire. Ordinary jinn of the tribes are usually also Daevic, but they can be any religion, depending on where they live – Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Zoroastrian, Hindu, Buddhist. Do you need me to keep going, or can we <em>please</em> escape while the witches are gone?”</p><p>Nile considers, then decides that they can continue this conversation at an alternate location, even as she tallies it up in her head. Of the four kings that Yusuf has warned they shouldn’t cross, they have definitely crossed at least two – al-Maḏhab and Barqan – already, and that is bad enough. She notices that Yusuf has a particularly evasive look when speaking of the Golden One, and wonders what the rest of that story is. But she’s hot and starving, there’s nothing left for them in this oasis, and they should put more distance between themselves and Petra while they have the chance. She nods her terse approval, Yusuf picks her up again, and – just like that, in the way that men always wish they had wings – they take to the air.</p><p>Nile has tied her netela around her face in a rudimentary attempt to shield herself from the heat and wind, but flying by day is very different than flying by night, and even though she enjoys seeing the sand dunes turn into formless amber seas far below them, she feels like a helpless small animal dangling in a hawk’s claws. Where are they going? It can’t be back to Jerusalem. Yusuf said something about finding a place to lie low, but a half-baked strategy of darting from pillar to post like a hunted rat, hoping to buy enough time not to be killed by the Night Riders or similar instrument of wrathful djinni destruction, doesn’t feel like much of a plan. It’s clear that he does want to be rid of the Ring of Solomon, or he would have raced back to Petra and tried to stop Andromache and Quynh from getting it. Or maybe he is confident in his protective enchantments, knows that they can’t, and doesn’t want to draw any more attention or give anyone clues about where to look. Nile can’t read Yusuf at all. Sometimes she thinks he’s almost human except for the fiery fingers and the ability to fly, and then he seems nothing like it.</p><p>They fly for a few hours, until the sun is approaching its midday zenith and the heat, even on high, is too punishing to continue. They swoop down into a tumble of rocks in a dusty valley, the ground streaked in mud and sand dried hard as brick. Yusuf scouts around until he finds a cave, which leads an unknown distance back into the hillside. Somewhere in its shadows lies a pool of clear water, still and crystal and deep enough that Nile can’t see the bottom. She kneels next to it, careful not to fall in, and splashes her burned face and arms, drinking thirstily. When she’s finished, she rocks back on her heels. “Is there any food?”</p><p>“I could conjure some,” Yusuf says. “But it’s not usually very substantial.”</p><p>“It’s better than nothing.” Nile’s innards are croaking with desperation, and Yusuf shrugs, clicks his fingers, and summons up some bread, figs, cheese, grapes, and several different varieties of wine in silver goblets. It does have an unsettling tendency to melt in her mouth, but it fills the most gaping holes, and she wolfs it down. The djinn sits on a rock, watching her with eyes that remain fiery-bright even in the dimness of the cave. When Nile finishes, she says, “So I could… I could still wish for two more things, right? Anything I wanted?”</p><p>Yusuf goes tense. He seems to have been both waiting for and dreading this turn in the conversation, and turns his head away. A chink of light from somewhere high above falls on half of his face, but it leaves the rest in shadow. Then he says, carefully toneless, “You could, yes.”</p><p>“Oh.” Nile has considered that, but only in passing. It hasn’t sunk in until this moment what it might mean. She hasn’t had to use wishes to force Yusuf to transport her or give her food, though that might still fall under the indefinite aegis of her first wish for protection. “What do people usually wish for?”</p><p>“You can most likely guess,” Yusuf says. “And I’m among the younger of my kind. Those who have been at it for centuries, for thousands of years – ” He stops. “Never mind.”</p><p>Nile looks at him. It’s occurring to her that just as she doesn’t trust Yusuf for being secretive and deceitful, he doesn’t trust her because he thinks she’ll try to permanently enslave him – whip out a lamp or a jug, force him in, cork it up, the end – and use him as a constant fount of gold, fame, power, beauty, or whatever else that Nile can, indeed, guess that most people wish for with a magical entity conveniently at hand to fill their animal desires. Impulsively she says, “I wouldn’t do that. You should know I wouldn’t do that.”</p><p>The djinn’s shadowed head turns to her. His answer is matter-of-fact. “You all do that.”</p><p>Nile tries to think how to respond. She’s definitely taken advantage of his abilities at least a little – but in her defense, she had no idea that he would appear when she put on the Ring, and he’s been playing her just as much as she has ever tried to play him. All of her decisions thus far have been motivated by simple survival, while he has some larger and far more deadly context of politics and feuds and banishments, that strange reticence in his voice when he mentions the Golden One. She’s not sure if she can ask, but she’s curious, and they have no other way to pass the time until the sun goes down. “What are the rules? For wishing? My – my father, he died when I was eleven. Could I – ”</p><p>“I can’t bring back the dead.” Yusuf raises a warning hand. “You saw what happens when we try. Ghuls. Maybe if someone had been dead for a mere instant, the fire of life was still in them, they had not yet crossed over, I could persuade them to wake up. But bring back a man who’s been dead for however many years, dead and buried, dust – no. It would be a monster.”</p><p>Nile had an unfortunate feeling that would be the case, but she had to ask. “And I’m guessing you can’t make anyone fall in love?”</p><p>“Why? Some likely village lad – or lass – you’ve got your eye on?”</p><p>“No. I was just curious.”</p><p>“I can produce a powerful feeling of desire and obsession in a person,” Yusuf says, after a very long pause, “and for some of you, that passes as love. It’s not true, though. It’s not real. It’s always forced on them by an alien and inhuman power – ” he makes a self-deprecating gesture at himself – “and it’s not something that I can ever imagine, if you truly loved someone, asking to be done to them. Yet there have been those who did, yes. Who have been so determined to have the object of their lust that they didn’t care if it wasn’t real, or if the person had not chosen it, because they didn’t see them <em>as </em>a person. And so – ”</p><p>“Did you do that?” Nile asks, a little horrified. “Make it happen to someone?”</p><p>“I had no choice, remember?” Yusuf’s voice is low and fathomlessly bitter. “The laws of Sulaiman are very clear on our obligations to humans, and how we can’t break the conditions of the wish contract, no matter what they ask for. Honestly, if the bastard’s Ring <em>is </em>back, I vote we use it to dig him up and give him a taste of his own bloody medicine.”</p><p>“But why?” Nile presses. “That doesn’t seem fair.”</p><p>“Fair?” Yusuf’s cynical chuckle echoes eerily around the cave. “You have a <em>lot </em>to learn. It was our punishment. My people are admittedly prone to run amok and destroy humans, to act like everyone does with the less powerful: knock them out of the way whenever we pleased, just because we could. So Allah gave Sulaiman the ability to curse us and control us. Place us in the humans’ position, to know what it is like to be at the whim of somebody far more powerful than you, who only sees what they can take from you. It was a harsh judgment, but fair. Once we learned our lesson, we were supposed to be freed from it. But that never happened. We didn’t learn our lesson. Sulaiman died and the Ring was lost. Nobody has been worthy to bear it since. The witches should just find it and destroy it. At least we’re used to living with disappointment.”</p><p>Nile flinches at the naked pain in his voice. There’s another lengthy silence. Then she says, “In Jerusalem. You said we were talking to the Golden One’s minions?”</p><p>“Yes.” Yusuf’s eyes flicker to hers, then away. “His right-hand demon, his war captain, Damriat, was the ifrit who captured us on the hillside in Jerusalem, though I don’t know how much of that you could see. He took us to Prince Sa’id, the Golden One’s eldest son and heir. Long story short, as I have told you, the Golden One wants the Ring of Sulaiman. Very badly.”</p><p>“And you don’t want him to have it,” Nile says, suddenly certain. “Or you <em>would</em> have given it – and me – to him right then.”</p><p>“I…” Yusuf hesitates. “I thought about it,” he admits. “I’m not entirely proud of it, but I did. But no. I don’t see the need for the Golden One, who already has too much power and is prone to use it unprovoked on the rest of us, to get the Ring of Sulaiman to boot. He sees himself as some sort of deity already, and just because he spoke to Sulaiman doesn’t make him the king’s heir. In fact, if I remember the history, there was plenty of plotting at Sulaiman’s death to make sure al-Maḏhab didn’t get the Ring <em>then. </em>You can be quite sure he hasn’t forgotten.”</p><p>“How old are you?” Nile asks curiously, then bites her tongue. “I mean, if it isn’t rude – ”</p><p>“One hundred and twelve. In human years.” Yusuf’s look is wry. “I think that’s about equivalent to your twenties. I was born just before the Christian first millennium, three hundred and eighty-two years after the Hijra of the Prophet, peace be upon him.”</p><p>“Oh.” Nile feels vindicated for thinking that he was young – if “young” is the right word for someone who is already older than everyone she’s ever known, even the Dembiya village elder who was rumored to be a hundred when he died. “Do you have a family?”</p><p>Yusuf bristles, as if to say of course he has a <em>family</em>, but answers levelly. “Yes. My tribe is from Egypt. My father is often traveling, he has many responsibilities for the Banu Zawba’ah. My mother lives in Cairo. My older brothers, Muhammad and Ismail, live at the court of our grandfather Emir Hasan, King Zawba’ah’s eldest son. My sister Noor is married to one of the Banu Shamhurish and lives in Samarkand. As for my other brother – ” He stops again. “Musa… went away… when we were boys.”</p><p>Nile can sense right away that this is something she shouldn’t push, and so she doesn’t. It does surprise her to hear that he has such a human-sounding family, rather than some monstrous menagerie of horned beasts and fire spirits, but the jinn do largely live and look like humans – especially, it seems, after Sulaiman’s curse. <em>They’re not monsters, they’re not slaves, they’re not demons or witless animals. </em>She says, “I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”</p><p>“It was my fault.” Yusuf’s voice is very tight. “But thank you.”</p><p>Nile starts to say something else, then stops. She pretends to busy herself with clearing up her luncheon, even though Yusuf can doubtless just snap his fingers and make it disappear. It’s clear that they’re not going anywhere just yet, and she’s exhausted from all these magical attacks and ludicrous escapades and running for their lives and flights in the burning sun. She lies down on the softest bit of ground she can find, wraps up in her filthy habesha kemis, and closes her eyes. Exhausted though she is, she’s nonetheless not sure if she’ll sleep, but she blows out like a candle.</p><p>She wakes in the darkness to the sound of a more-than-mortal battle.</p><p>***</p><p>Yusuf really did not think that there was any way for someone to find them here. Then again, the entirety of the last several days have consisted of everything he <em>thinks </em>being proven spectacularly wrong, so perhaps he should not have been surprised. He’s sitting by the mouth of the cave, somewhere he can see the stars, and he is forced to face the fact that he has absolutely no idea what to do next. His flailing notion of ditching the Ring and buying some time to improvise has been shot to pieces by the arrival of the witches and the attack of the Night Riders; he wants to think it was just coincidence that they happened to be in the vicinity, but that is blindingly foolish. The Black King either knows or strongly suspects that Yusuf is close to the Ring, and they’ve had a very narrow escape once. Counting on twice would be most unwise.</p><p>Desperately, Yusuf considers the notion of just returning to Sa’id and confessing everything, getting the banishment lifted, proving that he has acted in good faith, and trusting that their bond will be enough to spare him from any further penalties. Sa’id isn’t his father. Sa’id would be a better custodian of the Ring, or at least agree to return it permanently to oblivion to avoid upsetting the fragile peace among their peoples. Yusuf is aware that he does stupid things when he’s in love, goes to any extent – see, of course, the entire fighting-in-the-siege-of-Jerusalem saga that got him exiled in the first place – and because he’s been in love with Sa’id for almost four decades, it’s hard to imagine anything else. A djinn customarily leaves home at the age of seventy-five, is recognized as a young adult, and spends the next twenty-five years traveling, loving, studying, fighting, serving, learning magic, and otherwise preparing for the ceremony that marks their full coming of age at one hundred. And as soon as Yusuf set foot in the Golden One’s court for the first time and met the prince, he was lost.</p><p><em>You fool. You fool, you fool, you lovesick stupid fool. </em>Yusuf cannot possibly imagine that Sa’id would keep this secret from his father and his family, that he would choose one underling soldier over the entire weight of his dynasty and his destiny. <em>You already knew this. You gave up everything for him, and he would not give up anything for you. </em>Yusuf cannot place any hope in that, however much he might want to. But what, <em>what </em>does he do instead? He’s reasonably confident that the witches claiming to be immortal priestesses of the Queen of Saba can’t find the Ring, but he doesn’t know what magic they have at their disposal, or if they are who they say. And while Yusuf never asked to get mixed up in all this in the first place, he will find it difficult to forgive himself if he’s the reason the Ring ends up in the hands of someone who should not have it. That is, if he’s even around to rue the day. The number of enemies he has made, he might just –</p><p>He catches it only out of the corner of his eye, a black streak flashing across the lowlands almost too fast to see. Then he realizes that it’s moving directly at them, it’s not just some wisp of strangely low-lying cloud or mirage of the midnight desert. It’s the Night Riders, it has to be. That or the witches. They’re coming back, and they’re about to tear him and Nile to pieces.</p><p>Much too late, Yusuf springs to his feet, hands crackling with flames, just as the unstoppable force meets the immovable object with an almighty crash. They somersault headlong, punching and kicking, just as Yusuf registers that this is neither Night Rider nor witch. And indeed in the flashing light of his fists, as his adversary adroitly ducks a blow that was supposed to take his head off, Yusuf catches a glimpse of his face, and –</p><p>No. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, <em>no. </em>It cannot be him, he cannot be here, there’s no way. Yes, vampires can hunt and track over very long distances, but – but <em>why? </em>What has Yusuf done to deserve the affliction of running into <em>this </em>vampire again? Maybe the idiot feels cheated of his so-called rightful entitlement to drink from Nile, since vampires can be possessive and territorial that way. But why track them out to the middle of the desert just because of a thwarted snack? Even for one of them, this is beyond the pale, and Yusuf al-Kaysani is not going to stand for it.</p><p>He hauls off and hits Nicolò di Genova in the face with a ripe crack, entertains the happy hope that this has actually damaged him, and then is educated as to the error of that presumption with a jaw-clacking uppercut that launches him halfway across the cave. There’s a fangs-bared white flash as the vampire leaps on him, clearly more than a little sore about the sneak attack in the alley last time, and Yusuf finds his wrists caught in long-fingered hands that are as strong and ruthless as a steel trap, shoved over his head, and dragged, along with the rest of him, in the direction of the deep cave pool. Yusuf twists and thrashes trying to get away from it, Nicolò’s face just inches from his. <em>“Yield!” </em>the vampire snarls. <em>“Yield, or I’ll drown you!”</em></p><p>This is an empty threat – Yusuf can’t actually drown, as both of them know perfectly well, but a good dousing will be deeply unpleasant, dampen his power for several hours, and otherwise put him at Nicolò’s mercy. Deciding to go on offense rather than wait to be struck down, he slams his flaming palm into the vampire’s face, and is rewarded with a good howl as Nicolò rolls off, clutching his cheek. Likewise, bloodsuckers aren’t fond of fire. That <em>can </em>kill them.</p><p>However, Yusuf only gets a brief chance to savor his triumph. Nicolò grabs him by both shoulders and shoves him into the pool, the dark water closing over his head, and he screams wordlessly, bubbles frothing from his open mouth, as the nasty wet stuff sinks into his pores, his cracks and crevices, snuffing the daevic fire that lives in him, the source of his magic. He’s just about to grimly conclude that perhaps jinn can drown after all, and he will posthumously never live it down, when out of nowhere, the pressure leavens. Nicolò’s grasp on him vanishes, and there’s the muffled sound of a struggle from the surface. What the –</p><p>Spluttering, swearing, and shaking himself like a wet dog, Yusuf pops up in time to witness Nicolò sprawled on his back, looking surprised, and Nile standing above him, looking wrathful. She is holding a large rock, with which she evidently smacked him upside the head just like she did back in Jerusalem, and it distracted Nicolò long enough to break his hold. There is a lethal silence. Then Nile demands, “What is <em>he </em>doing here?!”</p><p>“Believe me, I also want to know that.” Yusuf extricates himself from the pool and begins wringing out his sopping-wet caftan. “As a matter of <em>urgency.</em>”</p><p>Nicolò glares at him. “Your witch friends stole my manuscript.”</p><p>“My witch <em>what?” </em>Yusuf knows that bloodsuckers are generally stupid, but this one is setting all kinds of new and unenviable records. “You mean Andromache and Quynh?!”</p><p>“Are those their names?” Nicolò gestures at him with the air of a man who has just made an unassailable point. “See! You <em>are </em>friends!”</p><p>“We are not friends, you – ” Yusuf fails to come up with an insult sufficient to convey the full spectrum of his loathing for Nicolò di Genova, and makes a noise like a furious goose. “We hadn’t even met them before – never mind! How about <em>you </em>explain how you know any of this?”</p><p>“I don’t see why I’m obliged to do anything of the sort.” Nicolò keeps glaring at him with cold and magnificent hauteur, grey eyes snapping, and Yusuf feels a sudden and unwelcome twist in his gut that has nothing to do with anger. That, however, is even more irrelevant, so he ignores it. “Did you two distract me while they stole it, or – ?”</p><p>“You distracted yourself with us,” Nile reminds him cuttingly. “I don’t see how we can be blamed for that.”</p><p>Nicolò pauses, gives a half-angry, half-resigned shrug, and rubs sullenly at his cheek, which has a faint black char from where Yusuf burned him. “Why were you with the witches who stole my manuscript? Well, Rabbi Samuel’s manuscript, but never mind.”</p><p>“We never saw a manuscript,” Yusuf says, exasperated. “We didn’t know they had any manuscript. They happened to run into us, we didn’t ask for them, we didn’t know them. They’re not here, as you may have noticed. If you’re so convinced that they’re the thieves, why didn’t you go after them? How did you even find us? You can’t track scent through midair.”</p><p>Nicolò seems confused by the question. “What do you mean? Of course I knew where you were. I saw you in the water and then I followed you the rest of the way.”</p><p>Yusuf narrows his eyes at him. As if he needed another reason not to trust water, apparently now vampires can spy on you with it. “And I repeat, why didn’t you go after the witches?”</p><p>“I did go after the witches, because I thought they would be with you.” Nicolò looks around the cave as if they might be lurking in the shadows. “I take it they’re not. So where?”</p><p>Yusuf opens his mouth to tell Nicolò that he’s not as smart as he thinks, but he doesn’t want to lead into any inadvertent reveals about the Ring. “Gone,” he says, with some amount of vindictive satisfaction. “So this was just a big waste of time for you, wasn’t it?”</p><p>Nicolò growls, low in his throat, and Nile jumps, backing away from the vampire. For his part, Yusuf reminds himself that he did not find that attractive, it’s absurd even to suggest it, and tries to think how to get the irritatingly handsome fanged dunce out of here without any more mishaps. “They were going in the direction of Petra. Why don’t you follow them? Right now.”</p><p>Nile shoots Yusuf a look, as if to ask if they really want Nicolò joining forces with the witches. But perhaps they would just decimate each other in violent magical skirmishes, wouldn’t that be tragic? Finally, Nicolò says, “You really don’t know anything about the book?”</p><p>“What book?” Nile maintains a safe distance, rock still clutched at the ready. “Why?”</p><p>Nicolò looks infuriated, wrestles with himself, and finally decides that he’s not going to walk out of here with nothing. “It’s called <em>The Key of Solomon. </em>It’s… important.”</p><p>This piece of information surprises Yusuf not at all, even as it confirms that yes, everyone is indeed after the same thing, and the explosions have barely started. If there’s anyone he wants to have the Ring less than the vampires, it’s hard to think. Even handing it over to Sa’id sounds like better by comparison. “No,” he says. “Can’t help. No idea what you’re talking about, sorry.”</p><p>Nicolò raises both eyebrows at him in a goading fashion, Yusuf raises his eyebrows right back, and they are thus engaged in making superior disdainful faces at each other when Nile urgently interrupts, moving to the mouth of the cave and pointing. “Are those the Night Riders? Again?”</p><p>Oh, hell. Broken off from the staring contest, Yusuf hurries to her side and peers out into the desert. Sure enough, there’s the telltale black cloud on the horizon, rumbling closer like an avalanche, and he can pick out flashes of lightning and cracking fire-whips that seem to promise they have acquired even more spectacular weaponry after their setback last night. The clear answer as to how they’ve found them again is that they just followed Nicolò; an unfamiliar vampire crossing jinn territory alone would be an irresistible lure. Even more, there’s nowhere for them to go. They’ll track Yusuf’s weakened magic like hawks, and even flying won’t work. They’re trapped. Sitting ducks. This – barring some brilliant plan in the next five seconds, or Andromache and Quynh suddenly turning up and deciding to save them again – is the end.</p><p>Nile clutches at Yusuf’s arm. “What are we going to do?”</p><p>“Let me think.” Yusuf glares witheringly at Nicolò. “If <em>someone </em>hadn’t tried to drown me, my magic might be enough to escape, but since he just had to – ”</p><p>“You burned me!”</p><p>“You are a very annoying vampire.” Is it a trait of the bloodsuckers or the Franks, Yusuf wonders, to stand there and make stupid comments as some terrible situation they created goes progressively more to hell behind them? Both? It feels like the answer is both. “Since you’re the reason they found us here, perhaps you have some helpful suggestion?”</p><p>Nicolò opens his mouth as if to ask who <em>they </em>are, decides that it’s beside the point, and takes an angry step. “Look, you pathetic smoke-brained excuse for a camel’s backside, if <em>you </em>hadn’t – ”</p><p>“HEY, ASSHOLES!” Nile’s voice sounds loud as a bolt of thunder in the enclosed space, and it makes both bickering immortals jump like guilty children. “How is it that I’m the only one who doesn’t have magical powers, and <em>I’m</em> doing all the work?”</p><p>Yusuf and Nicolò pivot around to see that Nile is hauling stones to the mouth of the cave in an attempt to wall up the opening. Evidently she feels that if magic isn’t going to bail them out of this one, good old-fashioned human elbow grease must be called upon instead. It’s almost adorably naïve to think that rocks and mud will keep the Night Riders out – but it <em>is </em>true that like other jinn, they won’t want to go too near water, and since Yusuf’s still-dripping clothes and beard testify to the fact that there <em>is </em>water here –</p><p>He isn’t sure how to make use of it, or if they have time to build a barricade by hand, especially in his weakened state. Then Nicolò flashes past him, wrenches a few sizeable boulders out of the wall with vampiric strength – Yusuf is not admiring it, shut up – and carries them like feathers to the mouth of the cave, as Nile is trying to find some way to move the water closer. There isn’t any bucket or ordinary tool, and Yusuf is not a marid; he cannot command or control water to do his bidding. The thunder in the ground is getting closer – they have only moments until the Night Riders will find them here, and they’ve squandered any time they had to run away. Nicolò hauls more boulders over, but it’s too late, it –</p><p>And then, Nile’s face lights with a sudden idea. She wheels on Yusuf. “If I made a wish – would that still work? The wish contract is bigger than you, right? You <em>have </em>to do it if I tell you, regardless of the present state of your powers?”</p><p>“Yes, but – ” No thanks to wretched Sulaiman, a djinn does indeed have to obey when a lawfully bound master gives a wish command, no matter what, but if it’s too far beyond their current capabilities, it can tear them apart. “I don’t think that’s a – ”</p><p>“You have any other idea?” Nile has to yell over the pounding, as dust and stones fall heavily from the cave ceiling. They have mere instants until they are found and dragged off to the Black King, with extra retaliation for having bloodied the Night Riders’ noses last time. “Anything?”</p><p>Yusuf doesn’t.</p><p>“I wish,” Nile says, “that we were home.”</p><p>And with that, before he can tell her that this is once more a terrible wish, Yusuf can feel it happening. More than that, Nile said <em>we,</em> there are presently three of them in here, and that obliges Yusuf to bring Nicolò too. The magic wells up painfully in him, forcing its way through the dampened embers – Allah help him, this is <em>not </em>going to be pleasant –</p><p>There’s a brilliant flash. A soundless, imploding boom.</p><p>Instants later, the Night Riders reach the cave, tear the rocks aside – and behold an empty space. Dust swirls gently in the moonlight among scattered boulders, still and silent.</p><p>Yusuf, Nicolò, and Nile are nowhere to be seen.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing Nicolò is aware of is sand. Indeed, that is barely sufficient to describe the experience; there is sand wedged up every orifice, dry and rasping in his mouth, stinging his eyes, and his head is buried in it at full length. It takes several moments for his memory to click back into action – the cave, the enemies outside, the human girl making a wish – and then nothing. The end result of it must be this, and it’s not surprising that the damnable genie has elected to insert Nicolò into this powdery predicament. Where the hell are they? Are they even in one place (or one piece)? Why is there <em>so – much – God-be-damned – SAND?</em></p><p>After a struggle like a speared worm trying to escape a fishhook, Nicolò succeeds in surfacing, spitting sand. As he scrapes it out of his face, he sees that he appears to have crash-landed between the massive stone forepaws of some enormous sculpture: something with the body of a lion and the head of a king. They certainly aren’t in the cave. Vast open-air desert spreads to every side, overlooked with a luminously starry sky, as the night wind stirs up dancing devils across the dunes. The black ribbon of a river uncoils across the reedy lowlands, and on the far side stands a splendid walled city, domes and minarets glowing in the moonlight. And to his left and behind him –</p><p>Nicolò blinks. He is vaguely aware of hearing of the mighty pyramids of Egypt, and he’s fairly sure that these must be them. That, however, makes absolutely no sense. Why is he in <em>Egypt? </em>He was in the Ammonite desert an instant ago, and before that, Jerusalem. He has been transported hundreds of miles in the blink of an eye, fallen out of the sky before a statue – would this be the mythic Sphinx? – and in the company of –</p><p>At that he looks around, not knowing what he expects, just in time to spot Nile trying to clamber out of her own impact crater, her braids thick with sand. She likewise sees him first and flinches, and Nicolò feels a certain shame; he has not been as courteous to her as he should have. Not sure if she’ll spurn the help, he makes his way over and offers a hand. “Are you all right?”</p><p>Nile eyes him, slips backward, and reluctantly decides to take his hand, as he pulls her free with a flick of his wrist. She looks surprised and wary. “You’re… very strong.”</p><p>“It comes with the territory.” Nicolò glances around. “Where’s the genie?”</p><p>“The ‘genie’ is right here.” Yusuf’s voice comes coldly from above them, and Nicolò performs an undignified twirl before seeing him sitting on top of the Sphinx’s stone head. Evidently he reserved the graceful landing for himself and just pitched the other two straight into the sand. Or he did with Nicolò, at least; the apologetic look he shoots Nile seems to indicate that was not quite the plan for her. “You’re welcome.”</p><p>“Where are we?” Nile asks, even as a dawning awareness is crossing her face. “Is this – Cairo? Egypt? What are we doing in <em>Egypt?”</em></p><p>“You wished for us to be home,” Yusuf says. “Since you failed to specify whether this was your home, his home, or someone else’s, for the purposes of the wish, it defaulted to the home of the creature carrying out the magical command, which was me. So yes, this is Egypt. My home.” He pauses. “And since you said <em>we, </em>we’re still stuck with him.”</p><p>“You can’t talk to me like I’m not here,” Nicolò says hotly. “I didn’t <em>ask </em>to come.”</p><p>“No,” Yusuf mutters. “Unfortunately.”</p><p>“All right,” Nile snaps, as if to cut them off at the knees before they can get started on a new argument. “We can’t sit out here all night. What are we doing now?”</p><p>“My mother lives here.” From Yusuf’s tone, it’s clear that he is not eager to descend on her with a vampire and a human girl in tow, but he can’t think what else to do. “I suppose we could make our way there while I work out what to do next. The Night Riders can’t come here, this is King Zawba’ah’s territory. So there are only nine hundred and ninety-nine <em>other </em>things that could cause problems for us, and for my mother if I involve her in this. Wonderful.”</p><p>“I didn’t know you had a mother.” It comes awkwardly out of Nicolò’s mouth, half scathing and half curious. He thought jinn were born from flame – or in this one’s case, sprang fully formed out of some annoying infernal cesspit. “Is she nicer than you?”</p><p>The heat of Yusuf’s glare almost sets him on fire again. “You say one word about my mother, vampire, and I will leave you out in the desert for the jackals.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ.” Nicolò raises his hands in surrender. “Forgive me if I wanted to ask a question about whether another of your kindred would roast me and cook supper on my ashes.”</p><p>“She wouldn’t,” Yusuf says reluctantly, as if he considers this generosity something of a failing on his mother’s part. “She is… kind. I’m sure she would look after us if we needed to stay for a few days. But I would rather avoid getting her embroiled in this mess.”</p><p>“Don’t your older brothers work for your grandfather?” Nile asks. “Emir Hasan? And he’s King Zawba’ah’s son? You’re their family, a prince of the bloodline, and Zawba’ah is one of the Seven Jinn Kings. Don’t they have to defend you from a rival?”</p><p>Yusuf evaluates her with a look of surprise, as if to say that this is not a totally terrible idea. But he says, “Djinni families can be a delicate affair. Sometimes we need protection <em>from </em>them as much as <em>with </em>them. My older brothers are… mercurial, but they won’t stand for the Night Riders wantonly assaulting us. They’d see it as an insult to family honor. Probably go charging off to throw down the gauntlet and declare another tribal war. Fine. I don’t have any better ideas. We’ll go to my mother’s house and try to recover ourselves. Both of you, just let me do the talking. We’re going into the djinni half of Cairo, and neither of you are common sights there. Nile might be considered my human slave, and Nicolò – ” He shrugs. “Only we get to start wars around here. So keep your witticisms behind your fangs.”</p><p>With that, as Nile and Nicolò look miffed for different reasons, Yusuf starts down the dark sands, with the air of a badly outnumbered general marching into what he just knows is going to be a total disaster. He moves slowly, as if in considerable pain, and Nicolò feels an unwelcome flash of guilt. Evidently being dunked in water and then coerced by the magic of the wish is not particularly salubrious for a djinn, and as they enter the low-lying plains of the river from which their human takes her name, Yusuf’s foot slips in the thick, sucking muck. Nicolò’s hand shoots out to catch him, and he can suddenly sense that both of them are a little too aware of where his cool fingers grip Yusuf’s flame-warm forearm. They flick half a gaze at each other, and then Yusuf pulls away. “Careful,” he says coolly, as if Nicolò is the one who stumbled. “Some of those logs around here can be sleeping crocodiles, and you don’t want to step on those.”</p><p>Nile eyes their surroundings warily, as they crunch through the reeds and arrive at the western riverbank. It’s still several hours until dawn, and there is no light on the horizon, so the other two have to grudgingly rely on Nicolò’s superlative night vision to find the raft that is tied up at the quay. They untie it, Yusuf conjures up a few coins to compensate its owner for the trouble, and Nile, as the resident expert on, well, the Nile, takes charge of poling them into the fast-running current. Yusuf eyes it with revulsion. “I could have just flown us over.”</p><p>“You’re welcome to do that,” Nile says shortly. “Or if you want to wear out the rest of your magic and do a belly flop into the river, I’m sure we’d all like to see that.”</p><p>Yusuf opens his mouth, evidently decides not to engage on multiple conversational battlefields, and remains silent until they reach the far side. The human city of Cairo sprawls before them, the capital of the much-reduced Fatimid caliphate, and Nicolò can’t help looking around curiously. They reach a postern gate, which Yusuf magically unlocks, and they sneak through without waking the soldiers drowsing at their posts on the walls above. Even that small bit of spellwork seems to drain the djinn. Sparks burst fitfully from his fingers, burning and hissing in the mud, and he shakes his hand, grimacing. “I need a fire.”</p><p>They keep low, trying to stay quiet on their excursion through the slumbering streets. Mosques and madrassas, squares and souks, fountains and filigree, trees and terraces, gardens and parks spill in every direction, minarets rising through the jumbled rooftops and apartments built chockablock on top of each other, overshadowing twisting, narrow lanes. It is barely bridled chaos, unspooling like a ball of tangled thread, and Nicolò has soon hopelessly lost his bearings. But the two sprawling Great Palaces of the caliphs, the Bayn al-Qasrayn plaza, and the al-Azhar university sit at the center of the city, so as long as he can keep that within his field of reference, he knows approximately where they are. Despite its beauty, the place looks bruised, dusty, hard-used after its masters’ stinging defeat in the Holy Land. There are beggars and cripples and children asleep in dark corners beneath dirty cloths, and a pack of feral dogs gallop after them with a hungry look, until Nicolò turns around, snarls with full fangs and pitch-black eyes, and makes it known that <em>he</em> is the alpha here. The dogs retreat, cringing and whimpering, and Yusuf looks unwillingly impressed. “At least you’re good for something,” he remarks, as they reach a humble clay archway carved with Arabic script. “We’re going through here.”</p><p>Nile looks skeptically at the low dark crevice that lies beyond. “Your mother lives there?”</p><p>Yusuf laughs. “Appearances are deceiving among my kind, remember? This is the gate into our half of Cairo. You two aren’t jinn, you won’t be able to get through on your own, so – ” With a martyred air, he thrusts out both hands. “Let’s go.”</p><p>Nicolò and Nile look at each other, look at him, and confirm that he does intend for them to take hold, and do so. Yusuf shakes his head, mutters something that sounds like “What am I <em>doing?”, </em>and with that, walks the three of them forward.</p><p>Nicolò senses – he isn’t sure what, but a shimmering, a glow, a veil being drawn back, a gentle scent of sandalwood and frankincense. Something ripples like wind passing over water, and then all at once, they are standing in neither a grimy little alley nor anything that any mortal eyes have ever seen. The city walls are pure as snow, built of flawless white marble, etched with gold and gilding, and the plaza before them looks as if it could accommodate an entire chariot race. The houses are lavish villas enclosed by high whitewashed walls, grown with vines and flowers and hung with lanterns. Everything bursts with magic. Unseen bells chime soft music. Silk hangings in tall windows are lapis blue, imperial purple, viridian green, scarlet red, cloth-of-gold, a veritable rainbow. The streets are wide, well paved, spotlessly clean, and the public fountains burst with wildflowers and cascades of gemstones – pearl, diamond, ruby, emerald, a dazzling opal – as well as water, which the jinn evidently appreciate for its aesthetic and agricultural properties, even if they regard actual contact with it warily. Nile’s jaw is sagging, she rubs her eyes as if to be sure that she’s actually seeing this, and even Nicolò cannot resist his amazement. “This is… this is your city?”</p><p>“Yes,” Yusuf says, with undeniable pride. “Welcome to Cairo.”</p><p>Nicolò and Nile dawdle behind, looking in every direction, as Yusuf tries to hurry them on; it is close to dawn by now, servants and early risers are stirring behind shutters, and a vampire and a human would instantly attract the attention of every djinn in the city. They take a few more turns down side streets, passing handsome houses with tiled roofs and wooden gates, and Yusuf finally comes to a stop at one such gate, shaded by fruit trees and painted red. “This one,” he says, lifts the latch, and swings it open, beckoning them. “Wait here. Quietly.”</p><p>As Yusuf goes on inside, Nicolò and Nile stop in the coolness of the gatehouse, peering at the courtyard beyond and admiring the dazzling mosaics and the way in which the nearest tree immediately grows a new orange after Nile picks one down. She splits the skin and takes a bite, her eyes going wide with delight. Then she offers it to Nicolò. “Do you want… ?”</p><p>“I can’t eat human food.” He is touched at her awkward generosity. “Or at least very rarely. It is – it is kind of you, though. I apologize for how… disorderly I have been.”</p><p>Nile looks at him sidelong, curious and compassionate. “It must be hard. Living like – like you.”</p><p>“I’ve grown used to it.” Nicolò does not mention that he still prays the Ring of Solomon can take it away. “Most of the time.”</p><p>Nile eats another piece of her orange, as they lean against the wall in mutual weariness. Far off, the call of a muezzin splits the dreamy purple air, summoning worshipers both human and jinn for the fajr prayer. Vampiric senses are both delighting and disconcerting in this place where everything is new. Nicolò can hear the click of footsteps, the rustles in the air, the crackling of sacred fires. He can smell spices, perfumes, kindling, cooking food – even the jinn must eat – the scent of fresh bread and roasting meat. He can see at once why Yusuf’s blood tastes the way it does, that onyx and golden brew of magic and sunlight and desert, the way he is so utterly a reflection of this place that has made him. Nicolò’s mouth almost waters with the need for another taste, a drop of the gods’ ambrosia. Not, of course, that Yusuf is remotely interested in permitting any such thing, and hunting here will be impossible.</p><p>Nicolò and Nile wait, unsure what to expect, until Yusuf finally returns. “My mother has been informed of you,” he says tersely. “This way.”</p><p>They follow him across the courtyard, as the sun is beginning to climb the walls and for the first time in years, Nicolò does not feel it like a lash. They pass into the broad corridor on the far side of the house, and into an airy room furnished with cushions, settles, rugs, a brazier, and a tall three-tiered ring of candles burning with daevic fire, which casts a clear golden light over the room. On the far side sits a plump, pretty woman in a beautifully embroidered turquoise and golden chador, a jewel sparkling in her nose and her waist-length black braid just peeping out from beneath the veil. It is plain that she is Yusuf’s mother. She has his eyes. They are lively, intelligent, warm as a flame, and dark as rich chocolate. (Not that Nicolò has been making close study of Yusuf’s eyes.) At their entrance, she rises to her feet. “I am Maryam bint Tariq ibn Khaled of the Banu Zawba’ah tribe of al-Katibi,” she says in Arabic. Evidently she is not worried that they will be able to harm her by knowing her name, or it is safe to speak it here in the protective enchantments of her home. “My son’s guests are always welcome beneath my roof.”</p><p>“My lady,” Nicolò says, feeling that this might be a rather Western form of address but unsure how else to proceed. He bows over her offered hand. “I am Nicolò di Genova. I am perhaps not your… customary breed of houseguest, but I do not mean you any harm.”</p><p>“A Frank, or a <em>maṣṣāṣ</em><em>?”</em> Maryam eyes him critically. Seeing that he is unfamiliar with the word, she clarifies, “It is the name we often give your kind. It means ‘bloodsucker,’ though perhaps that is unkind to use with a guest. I will call you Nicolò, if it is not too informal.”</p><p>“No, my lady.” He finds himself both touched and oddly agonized by her kindness, the sort he has not had from anyone – and certainly not a mother – in almost a human lifetime. “Strictly speaking, I am not a Frank. I am from the city of Genoa – the Republic of Genoa now, though it was still part of the Holy Roman Empire when I was a man. It was granted its status as a free city in our year 1096. I do not know what that is in your calendar.”</p><p>“489 al-Hijra,” Yusuf supplies, having evidently overheard the exchange, and Nicolò has cause to be jealous of the djinni facility with languages and dates. It occurs to him to wonder what language they’ve all been speaking. Nile knows Arabic – in fact, her Arabic is much better than his – and that could serve as a common denominator, but he’s quite sure he hasn’t been using it this whole time. He may have in fact been speaking his native tongue, which Yusuf and Maryam can understand, but why Nile? As far as he is aware, her main language is Ethiopian Amharic, and Nicolò definitely does not know that, though he does speak the French that is now the common language of exchange and business in the Holy Land. Nor does he think she knows Genoese, yet they’ve communicated without difficulty thus far. Perplexing.</p><p>While he’s working on that conundrum, he steps aside, and Nile shyly presents herself to Maryam, who takes an instant liking to her, proclaims her an angel for bearing up with Yusuf and his ridiculous adventures, and bustles her off for a proper breakfast. That leaves Yusuf and Nicolò together, doing their best to avoid each other’s eyes. Finally Nicolò says, “Your mother is very lovely.”</p><p><em>Not at all like you </em>is the obvious corollary, but out of respect for the fact that Yusuf has taken them to his mother’s home and is asking her to shelter them, Nicolò leaves it unspoken. They eye each other warily, having arrived at a brief and fragile détente in their ongoing war of words (and war of, well, war – Nicolò’s cheek still smarts from the burn, and Yusuf is still looking pained from his dousing). Both of them open their mouths, wait for the other to speak first, and shut them. There is some tension thick between them that does not only stem from their patent dislike of each other, and Nicolò is not certain what. In this light, Yusuf is even more eerie and elegant than ever. He looks human enough at first glance, but the faint glow that surrounds him, the occasional sparks from his hands, the shocking perfection of his features, and the point and length of his ears, make it clear on a second appraisal that he is not. They stare at each other. Then Yusuf coughs, clears his throat, and turns away, deliberately breaking their gaze. “There’s a dark room we could find for you,” he says. “If you have to be out of the sun.”</p><p>“Oh.” Nicolò still hasn’t registered its pain in quite the same way as usual, even though it is just as hot and bright out here in Cairo – possibly hotter – than it is in Jerusalem. “Oh, well, yes. I’ll just – see myself out. Thank you.”</p><p>With that – it is the most cordial exchange they have ever had, and he can see Yusuf looking as if he doesn’t know what to do – Nicolò flees before he can get into any more trouble. He isn’t sure if he should muddle around by himself, as he is a very newly arrived and not unconditionally trusted guest, but he doesn’t want to interrupt Maryam and Nile, and he is feeling the need for a little space. He goes up the stairs to the second floor, which contains bedrooms and sitting rooms and a small library filled with books. He cautiously pushes at doors until he finds a bedroom that looks empty and unused, and steals inside. Vampires normally don’t need to sleep every night – Nicolò has gone almost three weeks without it before, especially in cold or dour weather – but repeated and long-term exposure to this kind of heat wears him down. He lies on his back, like a tomb-carving of a knight, and stares up at the ceiling. Cairo. <em>Magical </em>Cairo, even. In a djinni house (and a Muslim house too, though after his time with Rabbi Samuel, this is less unusual). Far away from the mysterious witches and the stolen <em>Key of Solomon. </em>He hopes this was the right thing to do, but he cannot at all be sure.</p><p>Nicolò closes his eyes. The city is too noisy, too unfamiliar, and he has to concentrate hard to block it out, all the assaults on his senses that want to rush through the closed wooden shutters and pile up on top of him. They are here to rest, though. He should do that. He should.</p><p>It takes him a long time to go to sleep.</p><p>***</p><p>“So tell me,” his mother says, eyes bright and avid as a bird’s. “Who is this nice Italian boy you’ve brought home, Yusuf?”</p><p>“Mama.” Yusuf can feel his face heating. Nile has finished her breakfast and likewise shuffled off to bed, in his sister Noor’s old room, and he can sense that Maryam has been waiting for this opportunity to have her son at her mercy for endless questioning. “What are you talking about? He’s not a <em>nice Italian boy, </em>he is a bloodsucker, he’s not very nice, and I don’t like him. I wouldn’t have brought either of them here if I could avoid it, but things were… complicated.”</p><p>“Mmm.” Maryam returns to the kitchen hearth, removes an enormous and sizzling egg-and-honey bourek from the pan, and puts it on his plate, handing it to him. “Eat, Yusuf. Then I will go see that the <em>hammam </em>is warm. First, though, you tell me more about who is after you.”</p><p>“The Night Riders.” The admission comes grudgingly. The Black King is feared among all their kind, the Night Riders especially. “The essence of it is that Nile found a ring in Jerusalem and we have had… no end of difficulty since. We acquired the vampire by accident and now we can’t get rid of him. I was hoping to speak to Grandfather, perhaps. To see about… protection.”</p><p>Maryam’s eyebrows remain knit together, frowning. Emir Hasan, Yusuf’s paternal grandfather, is not a jinn to be approached lightly. While not quite to the same fearsome status as his legendary four-headed sire, King Zawba’ah, Hasan is not very human, not very concerned with humans or human things, and still bitterly resents the curse of Sulaiman; he was alive when it was cast, and is constantly brooding on how much better everything was in the wild and free days when jinn could be jinn, do whatever they wanted, and not ever be subject to anything so humiliating as a human’s command or this nonsense of three wishes. While Yusuf agrees with him as far as that goes, he can’t help but feeling that attitudes like Grandfather Hasan’s were what got the curse ordered by Allah in the first place. His two older brothers, Muhammad and Ismail, spend all their time at Hasan’s court and are reliable mouthpieces for his views, and Maryam, while she loves her sons, doesn’t entirely trust them, at least when it comes to the business of making sensible decisions. It’s sometimes difficult to blame her for this.</p><p>Besides, this would be an excellent pretext for the Banu Zawba’ah to go to war against the Banu Barqan, and djinni politics are fractious, bloody, and violent even at the best of times. The word <em>fitna </em>in Arabic, with its connotations of trial, challenge, the smelting of gold and silver, of burning and entering into fire – and also of charm, enchantment, fascination, temptation, heresy, intrigue, sedition, riot, and strife – might have been designed just for them, to encompass the tangled legacy of their people at a stroke. The news that the Night Riders are after one of King Zawba’ah’s great-grandsons… even on its own, it is not a promising situation. Add the ability to command their entire people, the awesome legacy of Sulaiman’s all-powerful Ring, and it is a recipe for utter, outright, unrestrained anarchy.</p><p>“What have you got yourself mixed up in now, my sweet one?” Maryam says despairingly. “Why the <em>Night Riders? </em>And why were you in Jerusalem? I thought you were still banished.”</p><p>Yusuf winces. “I was only… glancing in. Then Nile – never mind. It’s a long story.”</p><p>Maryam fixes him with the sort of long, steady stare that means she knows perfectly well that he doesn’t want to talk about it. She gets up and pours him another cup of coffee (the jinn have known about it for centuries, living among the fine coffee fields of Arabia and Africa), and Yusuf mutters a quick bismillah, drinks it and eats the bourek, as it crisps off in flakes of feather-light pastry. At least coming home means that he can count on a good meal, and Maryam watches him in silence. Finally she says, “I am worried about you, Yusuf.”</p><p>“I… I know.” Since he has already crashed into her home at the crack of dawn with a pair of uninvited guests and the small piece of news that the Night Riders are after him, he has to admit that it’s warranted. “I’ll think about this, I’ll work something out. We just need a little time to regroup. I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you.”</p><p>Maryam’s brow remains furrowed as she pats his hand, then shoots a nervous glance at the door as if the Black King’s monsters might surge through, and gets to her feet. “I will see what can be done,” she says. “The fire should be hot if you wish to wash.”</p><p>Yusuf finishes his breakfast, nods to his mother, and makes his way into the smaller courtyard at the back of the house, the cloisters on the far side. In a human residence, this would be the <em>hammam, </em>the baths shared by the household, and indeed, it fulfills the same function here. But the marvelously glazed tubs, deep enough to submerge a full-grown man, are filled not with water but with rippling, dancing flames. The word <em>daeva </em>entered human vocabulary as a pejorative, meaning “the gods that should be rejected,” but in the tongue of the jinn themselves, it simply means “fire,” the essence of their species. It lends its name to their language and their rituals, their fire temples, and is often taken as further proof of the jinn as a degenerate and dangerous race of devils. After all, what mortal man could bathe in a lake of fire, and emerge not just unharmed but remade? Hellfire and damnation could be the only explanation.</p><p>Yusuf strips off his filthy clothes – caftan, turban, leggings, boots, belt, scarf – and performs a swan dive into the tub. The fire embraces him with the sheer pleasure of its depth and heat, and he takes a few laps like any human swimmer in a sunlit river (though you would have to be most unwise to swim in the Nile, what with the currents and the crocodiles). He ducks under and closes his eyes, lets the holy fire seep into his pores, knitting him together, remaking his magic, expunging the harmful water. He floats on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and hopes that neither of his guests come calling abruptly. It might be hard enough to explain the tub full of fire, but he is suddenly and unaccountably certain that he does not want Nicolò di Genova to catch him with no clothes on.</p><p>Why that might be, Yusuf doesn’t know, aside from the fact that it would serve as a prime opportunity for some stupid comment from the vampire, and they have all suffered enough of those recently. If it is a sudden heat he feels at the thought, he <em>is </em>immersed in a literal vat of flame and that explains that. If Nicolò becomes too obnoxious, Yusuf can just shove him in here. That is one burn that even he would not recover from. It’s what Yusuf wants. It is.</p><p>Annoyed, Yusuf dives under, swims for a while longer, and then when the heat is starting to leach out of the tub, as it too must be fed with kindling and stones and spells, he climbs out and wraps himself in a linen towel, knotting it around his waist in the old Egyptian fashion. He sits on the floor of the <em>hammam</em> in meditative fashion, like a yogi from the Indus. He should try to attend at least one prayer at a mosque while he is home, but that will cause it to spread instantly among every gossip in the neighborhood that Yusuf al-Kaysani, the notorious and the exiled, is back in Cairo. The Golden One undoubtedly has spies among the crowds in the souks, jinn and half-blood alike, and the entire purpose of secrecy on this venture will be blown (yet again) if they are discovered too quickly. He can pray here. Allah will hear just the same.</p><p>Yusuf does so, too late for fajr and too early for zuhr but still good, then gets up and realizes that if he wants clean clothes, he will have to go up to his room and fetch them. He does not particularly want to put on his sandblasted rags again. So, still wearing only the towel, he leaves the <em>hamman, </em>crosses the courtyard back into the house, and goes up the stairs to the bedrooms.</p><p>Jinn like to keep their houses light and airy, and in a place like Cairo, there is rarely any threat of rain. Half the hall is open to the air, to the tops of the fruit trees, the verdant green and gold shadows, and Yusuf pauses to inhale the scent of home, of life, of beauty. His father, Umar ibn Hasan ibn Zawba’ah al-Kaysani, has two other wives; one lives in Mahdia, in Tunisia, with her daughters, Yusuf’s half-sisters, and the other keeps her household in Nubia. Her twin sons are barely striplings, not yet fifty years old, and Yusuf does not know them well. Jinn – especially kings – generally feel themselves at liberty to take as many wives and concubines as Sulaiman himself, but Umar is Muslim, as a member of the Banu Zawba’ah, and thus has observed the Prophet (pbuh)’s command that a man is only permitted a maximum of four. Maryam is his favorite wife and he spends the most time with her, but he has felt that it is most sensible for each wife to be allowed her own household and customs in order to minimize any familial strife. That way he can remain with each of them for a period of time during the year, on the course of his travels, and any rivalries or competitions for his attention remain muted, out of sight.</p><p>It is the only way Yusuf has lived and he is therefore used to it, but he has had the thought that if he was ever to marry, unlikely as that may be for several reasons, he could not take more than one spouse. By the Most High, it has been nearly forty years and he is still as hung up as ever on Sa’id, for all the fat lot of good it has done him. His heart wants what it wants too deeply, too singularly, too desperately, to think of sharing it out so easily. Perhaps this is a personal failing, a selfishness. It already led to his ill-fated service with the Fatimids, his banishment from Jerusalem, and now he is unwilling to simply hand the Ring of Sulaiman over to al-Maḏhab and be showered in riches and prestige greater than he ever dreamed. That is the easiest course. It could be argued he is the one putting everyone at risk by not pursuing it, with the Golden One, the witches Andromache and Quynh, the Night Riders, the Black King, everything that everyone could lose because Yusuf decided to be a hero and not a pragmatist –</p><p>Just then, as he is yet again questioning every single one of his life choices, he notices something down the hall. Righteous indignation burns through him, and he runs down the corridor, shoving the door open. “What are you doing in here?”</p><p>For an instant, there’s no response from the motionless figure on the bed. Then – having been startled awake unexpectedly – his vampire reflexes kick in at full bore. He springs up too fast for even Yusuf to follow, and the next instant Yusuf (still, it should be noted, only clad in a knotted loincloth, and that now in danger of slipping) has been pinned to the wall, Nicolò’s black eyes and bared fangs once more only a breath away. Yusuf stares into the face of something that could rip even him apart if he decides to be clever, and holds very still, waiting for the instinct to subside. It does after a moment, and Nicolò lets go of him, steps back with a confused and guilty expression, and stares accusingly at Yusuf. “What are <em>you </em>doing in here?!”</p><p>It is, Yusuf grants, a valid question, as he has just burst in while in a state of considerable underdress and frightened Nicolò out of his bloodsucker dreams. (Do they even have those? Inquiry for another time.) He steps away from the wall, trying to adjust his loincloth inconspicuously, and only succeeds in drawing Nicolò’s attention to it. “This is my brother Musa’s room. Nobody’s been in here since he – never mind. Did my mother say you could use this?”</p><p>“I didn’t ask,” Nicolò says, very shortly. “I did not want to disrupt her. If I have given some mortal insult, I will move.”</p><p>“It’s just – ” Yusuf is feeling increasingly foolish. Of course Nicolò, <em>nice Italian boy, </em>did not want to bother Maryam, went quietly upstairs, and selected the room that looked least lived in. That is because it is the truth, it has not been lived in for almost seventy-five years. Yusuf looks away, trying to control his voice. “There are other rooms.”</p><p>“I didn’t want to provoke some sort of war by stealing a djinn’s territory.” Nicolò sits back down on the bed, still watching Yusuf warily – though there is something else too. As he has just been freshly bathed and healed in flames, Yusuf is at the peak of his mesmerism and magic, his fiery, glittering allure, looking like some spirit unspooled from a lamp in a dark cave, the very embodiment of legend and sorcery. It cannot be denied (though both of them are trying very hard to do so) that Nicolò simply cannot look away from him. His eyes have returned to their usual grey, but the pupils are blown wide, dazed and stunned. It takes Nicolò a visible effort to return to some semblance of a sensible conversation. “Who is – who was – Musa?”</p><p>“He…” Yusuf does not want to talk about this, but he is the one who mentioned the name, and Nicolò does deserve <em>some </em>sort of explanation. “He… like I said, he was my brother.” Using the past tense is painful, but using the present, giving into some flickering hope that he’s still out there somewhere, is worse. “He was only fifteen years older than me, which made us practically the same age. We… he…”</p><p>Yusuf stops again, wondering why he’s telling Nicolò – <em>Nicolò, </em>his literally cold-blooded supreme nemesis – something that he didn’t venture with Sa’id until they had been lovers for years. But now that he’s started, he can’t stop. “We were boys,” he says. “We were best friends, we did everything together, I worshiped him. One day when we were out playing, we discovered an old brass lamp in the sands. We’d always been warned to be careful with those, we knew they were dangerous for jinn. But – like I said, we were children, we were brave explorers, nothing frightened us. I dared Musa to go into it, since he was just learning how to transform. Become smoke, go in, and come back out. So easy.”</p><p>Yusuf pauses, closing his eyes hard, trying to force back the awful vividness of the memory, preserved by magic and horror into something that will never fade. “Except the laws of Sulaiman in regard to the <em>genie </em>and the lamp are immutable. Musa was a green boy, and that simple enchantment can bind even the oldest and strongest of our kind. Of course he couldn’t get back out. He tried, and I tried to pull him, and he – his smile, for a split second, he thought he had, he was so proud of himself for a feat that not even the most legendary warriors of our people had managed. Then the spell took hold of him, and it began to tear him apart, force him in, and…”</p><p>Yusuf trails off again, pacing across the floor, barely registering Nicolò’s horrified face. He reaches the window and almost wants to leap out of it, if nothing else than to escape this humiliation. “I watched him rendered into pieces,” he says. “Transformed from my brother into a fiery spirit of the lamp, from a screaming child begging me to run and get Mama into a faceless black demon like the ifrit. The effect of the transformation conjured an almighty sandstorm, it swept everything away, knocked me out. I woke up I don’t know how long later. I searched every dune, every grain of sand. I screamed for him until I was hoarse. It was too late. He was gone, and it was my fault. He’s been gone ever since. We don’t know where his lamp is, or if he’s still bound to it. We never found it. I sold my own brother into eternal slavery on a stupid dare.”</p><p>“Jesus,” Nicolò says, faint and ragged. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Yusuf doesn’t want the vampire’s pity, wants it even less than his sardonic comments and his unhelpful appearances, can feel it threatening to sink strangler’s fingers around his heart. “Still want to call me <em>genie, </em>do you?”</p><p>“I didn’t…” Nicolò trails off. “You <em>did </em>call me bloodsucker,” he points out. “I just – you – ” After another pause, he says, “It can’t be any worse than what I did.”</p><p>“What?” Yusuf has been lost in a fog of self-recrimination, but that startles him, makes him look back around. “What do you mean, what you did?”</p><p>Nicolò looks away, a muscle working in the marble-pale lines of his cheek. “You were only a boy,” he says. “A child, playing around. You never meant to hurt him. I don’t have that excuse.”</p><p>“What?” Yusuf hesitates, then moves closer. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>Nicolò stares at his hands. It’s equally unclear if he meant to bring this up, but he also cannot stop himself. Finally he says, his voice dull and dead, “I killed my sister.”</p><p>“What?” Yusuf sounds like a talking raven, repeating it for the third time in a row, but that does genuinely shock him. He doesn’t know if it vindicates his decision to be suspicious of the vampire or not, but he needs to hear more. After a final pause, he sits down on the bed next to him, just near enough for their thighs to brush. “You <em>killed </em>your – ?”</p><p>“Her name was Caterina.” Nicolò raises his eyes to the ceiling, as if it is easier to confess this on high. “She was also my favorite sibling. She was a doctor, a <em>magistra, </em>at the university in Salerno, she studied with Constantine the African. After I was – after I was attacked and turned, I decided that I would travel to her, and she would work out how to solve my affliction. As if it was ever fair of me to burden her with the prospect of finding a solution to <em>this.” </em>He waves a hand at himself in unspeakable bitterness. “I was still a very new vampire when I arrived, and it was hard to control the feeding urge. I couldn’t be trusted around people. I didn’t attack her or anything like that, but I frightened her. She could see that I wasn’t her brother anymore, I was just some monster that looked like him. I kept pushing her to look for a cure, it didn’t matter what, it didn’t matter where – magical or medicinal. I was so selfish, I was blind with desperation, oblivious to the danger that it put her in. Finally – ”</p><p>He stops so abruptly that his voice sounds as if it has been smashed like a pane of glass. Then he goes on, with the same deliberate composure, “So of course the people of Salerno spread the rumor that Magistra Caterina consorted with beasts and demons. It destroyed her medical reputation and all the trust she had built in the community. They finally resolved to cast her out by force, and a mob came for her one night. I killed – many of them, but one of them got to her. The man stabbed her in front of my eyes, and…”</p><p>Nicolò takes a gutting breath that, strictly speaking, he doesn’t need. His face is blind and blank with grief. “I tried to save her,” he says. “I tried to turn her into a vampire. I thought that way she would live, we could have the adventures that she always said that she wanted. But more than that, it was for me, so I wouldn’t be alone. I was willing to inflict my monstrosity on my sister to make her into a creature like me, so we could go on being a family. If she lived, she could fix both of us. She could find the answer if she just had more time. She would forgive me, I reasoned, and she never did want to die. So I tried to turn her, and – ”</p><p>Again, he stops, and Yusuf finds himself reaching out to cover the vampire’s cold hand with his own. It’s a mark of how distraught Nicolò is that he doesn’t even notice, doesn’t pull away. “I didn’t know how,” he finishes, his voice low and devastated. “Of course I didn’t. I botched it, and she – she died. Horribly. In front of me, in far more pain than she should have been, from a stab wound that she might have survived if I hadn’t panicked. So yes. I killed her.”</p><p>“I… see.” Horrible as his own story is, Yusuf is forced to admit that Nicolò’s might be worse. As if it matters, trying to trade off tragedies, weigh up which of them is more haunted by the guilt of what they did to their own flesh and blood. “And you said back in Jerusalem that you’ve never known who turned you? Isn’t that against the laws of your kind?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t know.” Nicolò keeps staring at the wall. “Theoretically, yes, I have heard that a vampire is supposed to take responsibility for their fledglings, to nurse them through the blood hunger, to recognize them as their child and teach them the laws of our society like any good parent. If that is so, however, it is not what became of me. I was abandoned in the woods like a foundling orphan, never given a reason for why it happened, left to struggle through my own transformation and the forsaking of everything I used to be – for what, I don’t know. The vampires I did meet were mostly interested in hunting humans for sport, whether in banquet or in bed. I have tried ever since not to be like them. So. Still want to call me <em>bloodsucker?”</em></p><p>“All right, we haven’t gotten off on the best foot.” This is a titanic understatement, but there you have it. “But I won’t call you that any more, if you do the same for me with <em>genie</em>.”</p><p>Nicolò looks at him with a wry, drowned smile, and Yusuf’s heart skips a beat. “Very well. What am I to call you instead?”</p><p>“My – my name is Yusuf,” he says, feeling oddly and ridiculously timid, and before he can change his mind, he gives the vampire the ability to know him, to hurt him. He must be insane, even if the protections on this house will prevent the names of its family from being spoken rashly or maliciously to an enemy. “Actually, it’s Yusuf ibn Umar ibn Zawba’ah Abu Hasan al-Kaysani, but you don’t need to say all that. <em>Yusuf</em> would serve.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Nicolò considers. “Yusuf,” he says, as if trying it out. “Your mother already said that she would call me Nicolò, so that should not be a labor for you.”</p><p>“I – no.” Yusuf is intensely conscious of the fact that they are all but holding hands, and if he jerks back now, Nicolò would notice. “So you…” He tries not to suggest too much, or put too much knowledge into what is supposed to be an offhand comment. “So you <em>don’t </em>want the Ring of Sulaiman to give to the vampires?”</p><p>Nicolò looks at him with a deeply startled expression, as Yusuf remembers too late that the two of them have not yet openly broached the subject, being unavoidably distracted with trying to kill each other. Nicolò mentioned that his stolen book was called the <em>Key of Solomon, </em>and there can’t really be anything else he is looking for, but having it confirmed outright is still clearly shocking. “The – ” The vampire struggles to control himself, standing up and pulling their hands apart. “How did you know that I – ”</p><p>“It was an… educated guess.” Yusuf remains on the bed, because he thinks it might be wise to reestablish a little distance after that too-close moment of convergence, that inadvertent sharing of personal heartbreaks. “So that <em>is</em> what you’re looking for?”</p><p>“Yes,” Nicolò says, half to himself. “Yes, that is what I want.” Turning back to Yusuf, he demands, “Do you know where it is? Have you seen it?”</p><p>Yusuf stalls. Even if they might have had something approaching a moment of genuine connection, he cannot forget all the very good reasons why he can never trust a vampire. “If we were speaking hypothetically, yes, I know that it exists.”</p><p>Nicolò’s mouth twists. “Hypothetically,” he repeats, as if the word is worse than a curse. “And would you <em>hypothetically </em>also know where it is, or have you taken both myself and Nile on a wild goose chase for your own purposes?”</p><p>“Nile knows what we’re doing.” This is also a lie, as Yusuf has only told her anything when he can’t avoid it, but he doesn’t want Nicolò trying to recruit her as an ally against him. “And my methods may be somewhat… roundabout, but I’m trying to – ”</p><p>It’s too late. He can see wheels turning behind Nicolò’s sharp eyes, fitting pieces together, arriving at the inevitable conclusion. “The witches aren’t with you because you sent them elsewhere,” he says coldly. “Because they were also looking for the Ring, weren’t they? You said that they went to Petra. Is that where it is? Or was that just a total deception?”</p><p>“It’s…” <em>Complicated </em>might be the truth, but also a cowardly evasion of it. Suddenly wishing that he was not having this argument while only wearing a loincloth, Yusuf gets to his feet. Trying to change the subject, he challenges, “Why do you want the Ring?”</p><p>“Answer my question.” Refusing to be drawn, Nicolò regards him glacially. “Is it in Petra?”</p><p>“It… maybe.” Yusuf resists the urge to take a step back. He’s just promised not to call Nicolò <em>bloodsucker </em>any more, and he does mean it, but it’s hard to forget that is exactly what he does. “But after the witches and the Night Riders, frankly, we don’t – ”</p><p>“Then if it’s been lost, or if they have it, it’s your fault!” Nicolò looks utterly incredulous. “You just <em>dropped the most powerful magical object in the world </em>­– what, down a well? Are you a <em>total </em>idiot?! And then you have the gall to be surprised when other creatures turn up looking for it? Perhaps if you had been honest about that in the first place, we would be spared the need to bother your mother with this burden! If something happens to her, you’ll have only yourself to blame!”</p><p>Yusuf jerks back as if lashed with a whip. He opens his mouth, can’t think of a good rebuttal, and can’t even glare as heatedly as he wants. “I hid it,” he starts feebly. “I didn’t just – ”</p><p>“I don’t care.” Nicolò looks for a moment as if this is somehow worse than their previous fights. “Go rest for a few hours, if that’s what you need to do. Then you’ll take both of us back to Petra immediately, retrieve the Ring, and – ”</p><p>“It’s not that simple!” Yusuf is tired of being on the back foot, figuratively and literally, and gets into Nicolò’s face again. “Don’t play all high-and-mighty with me for not telling you, as if there was any reason I should have trusted you! I do not exist, my <em>people </em>do not exist, to serve the whim of the <em>Franks! </em>Of course you think you’re entitled to the Ring, just as the Christians thought they were entitled to Jerusalem! If we had kept it longer, we would have been discovered, killed in some horrible fashion, or anything else, and I already had to promise that I would hand it over to al-Maḏhab! And I <em>know </em>you don’t know who he is, so I’m not going to explain to you why that is a <em>terrible</em> – ”</p><p>They have, as is their wont while arguing, once more ended up nose to nose. Nicolò has an inch or so of height on Yusuf, but not much, and they are almost perfectly matched, reverse mirror images of each other: light and dark, summer and winter, hot and cold, day and night, fire and blood, Muslim and Catholic, djinn and vampire. The only thing they have in common is their eternity, and Yusuf has never in his life met such an aggravating individual of any species. HeHe is seized with a bone-bending urge to grab hold of Nicolò, force him to his knees, and –</p><p>No. By the <em>Prophet, </em>no, no, no. The image is too clear behind his eyes, making him pray that vampires cannot read minds. Neither of them move, as if it will set the other off like Greek fire. It would be no trouble for Yusuf to turn his head the barest fraction and kiss Nicolò until he finally shuts the fuck up, if such a miracle is even achievable. The wanting of it sears through him until even he cannot pretend otherwise. This is far from finished – Nicolò knows where the Ring is, and Yusuf does not think he is going to drop it –</p><p>He has no idea what would have happened next, if one of them would have broken the standoff with a word, a fist, or something else. Just then, he hears footsteps and shouting in the courtyard out front, the heavy bang of the gate, Maryam’s concerned voice – and then above it, two others. Two others which, although Yusuf may have consented in theory to the idea of informing them, instantly make this entire flammable situation a hundred times worse.</p><p>It’s his older brothers, Muhammad and Ismail. They’re here. They’re going to know. About the vampire and the human girl in their house, which is bad enough – and then about the Night Riders, the witches, and the Ring. And then when they know, Grandfather Hasan will know, and then King Zawba’ah will know, and as to where that leaves Yusuf –</p><p>Oh, Allah <em>help </em>him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Muhammad and Ismail are already making themselves right at home when Yusuf – who has managed to get mostly dressed in the interim – pelts down the stairs in a panic. They are swaggering through the solar, shouting for the servants (who were strategically shooed out by Maryam while she was taking the measure of the new arrivals) to fetch them wine, even though they know there is none to be had in the house. Emir Hasan disdains the Islamic dietary and behavior restrictions, even though he adheres to the faith in name to please his formidable father; if King Zawba’ah ever dies, it’s open to question whether the Banu Zawba’ah will be maintained as a Muslim dynasty. Yusuf feels a prickle of anger that of course his brothers come in here like this and try to make the rest of the household share in their apostasy. They know their mother is devout. Why do they have to hurt her like this?</p><p>He reaches the bottom of the stairs, still pulling his fresh caftan straight and hoping that he doesn’t look too flustered, since the last thing he needs is questions from his brothers about why. He has to take a moment to prepare himself. One of the other reasons he and Musa spent so much time together was that they both went in awe and terror of their big brothers; Muhammad is seventy years older, Ismail fifty, and they never had much time for fresh-faced boys scampering at their heels. It was difficult with them, in the way it always is with brothers living in a patriarchal and tribal society where they must increase their honor by means of weapons and war. If Yusuf recalls, Muhammad has recently married one of the daughters of the Banu Maymun, a provocative choice insofar as the Maymunites are Daevic, not Muslim. Emir Hasan gave his favorite grandson his blessing for the match, in an implicit challenge to his sire. King Zawba’ah must not have failed to take notice. And now Yusuf is walking in here with the Night Riders, the witches, the vampires, <em>and </em>the Ring of Sulaiman? Is he <em>insane?</em></p><p><em>You signed up for this, </em>he reminds himself grimly. <em>They are your family. They may want to kill you, but they can’t actually let anyone else do it.</em></p><p>Yusuf faces up to the door, takes a deep breath, and walks inside. “As-salaam alaykum, my brothers,” he says, more than a little pointedly, to remind them that this is still an observant Muslim home and they will not torment Maryam too far with their unbelief while he is here. “How do you do this fine morning? I was not expecting to see you so soon.”</p><p>“Little brother!” Muhammad turns to him with a smile, spreading his arms as if to administer a welcoming embrace. He is taller than Yusuf by several inches, broader through the shoulders and chest, and he wears the green colors of their house, a bright emerald tunic beneath a bronze breastplate, a fringed silk sash tied around his waist. His well-honed saif is slung casually through it, along with a dagger, and Yusuf casts the weapons another irritated look; must he parade around their mother’s house as if it were a battlefield? Muhammad glows with djinni health and vitality, handsome and unmovable, taking up space and air and heat, a deliberate signal to his brother not to think of trying to pull it back for himself. “So you <em>are </em>in Cairo. We thought it was, but the dirt-bloods had such a strange tale, we could not be certain.”</p><p>Despite himself, Yusuf winces. He doesn’t even know why. He has used “dirt-bloods” as often as any other djinn – he was using it to himself when he met Nile, even if not aloud. But for some reason, it falls clangorous, aggressive, in his ears. “You mean the humans?”</p><p>“Humans, no.” Muhammad waves that off. “But a half-blood is the same thing. They saw you sneaking through the streets early this morning with a pair of very queer companions. I did not think it could be so. I said you were still lurking outside Jerusalem, mooning after the Golden One’s spawn from afar. And yet!” He makes a theatrical gesture of surprise. “Here you are!”</p><p>Yusuf grits his teeth, reminding himself that things will go <em>very </em>badly if he attempts to throw his brother through the nearest window. “Here I am,” he says, with a neutral, unrevealing smile. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”</p><p>Muhammad shrugs. “It was our duty to see whether it was our dear Yusuf, wasn’t it? And here you are. Who were the others with you? The dirt-blood said something about a bloodsucker, but even you wouldn’t be <em>that </em>crazy.”</p><p>Yusuf feels his smile turning fixed. “So you have both rushed home to see who I might be introducing to our mother? I’m sure the emir’s most favored grandsons have better things to be doing with their time. Where’s Ismail? Already breaking the Prophet’s law somewhere else?”</p><p>“By the Sacred Flame, you are tiresome.” Muhammad raises his eyes to the ceiling in mute appeal to deliver him from self-righteous little brothers. “You were always a mother’s boy, now you have become a zealot as well? Leave that to the humans, Yusuf. You saw how much trouble it got them into, with Jerusalem. Or wait, are you still banished?”</p><p>“I swear, I am going to – ”</p><p>“How nice it is to have the family together!” The door bursts open and Ismail makes his usual oversized entrance; indeed, he was most likely waiting for precisely the right moment. Despite being the second son, he is even larger than Muhammad, ink-black hair and beard glistening with golden rings, his eyes of copper and flame, so clearly not human that it is a good thing he is generally invisible to them. Yusuf feels an old shiver travel down his spine. Ismail always used to tease him about his love for reading and art and poetry, say that he would let the family down if he did not train harder in arms, and then they would be no better than humans themselves. “Ah, Yusuf, such a sour face. This is the first time we’ve seen you in – how long, Muhammad?”</p><p>“At least since we had cause to wonder whether you were still loyal to our family.” The casual goading has gone out of Muhammad’s expression, and he folds his arms, his expression stormy. “It was on behalf of Prince Sa’id and the dirt-bloods that you got yourself thrown out of Jerusalem, and now you’ve brought – who, exactly – into our mother’s house?”</p><p>“Don’t be insane,” Yusuf sputters. “Of course I’m loyal to our family. And you have a lot of nerve acting like I’m the one dishonoring our mother, when <em>you </em>– ”</p><p>Muhammad and Ismail exchange the sort of long-suffering look that means they were anticipating this argument, and might even have staged that dramatic call for wine as a way to ensure he was prickly and defensive to start with. His brothers are obviously clever, in a rough soldier way, and the downside of family is that they always know exactly which buttons to push. There is a very tenuous pause as the al-Kaysanis glare at each other. Then Muhammad says, “Well, then. Surely you have no hesitation in introducing your guests to us? Come, come. We want to meet our little brother’s bosom friends.”</p><p>Yusuf opens his mouth to protest hotly that they are <em>not </em>his bosom friends, then stops. This is a trap almost any way he answers it. Finally he says, “They’re asleep.”</p><p>“Oh, asleep.” Ismail scoffs. “That must be it.”</p><p>“By the Most High, can you three not leave off arguing for a <em>moment?” </em>The door opens again, this time to admit Maryam and one of the maidservants, Sameer. Maryam strides to the center of the room, exerting an undeniable force of presence even among her tall warrior sons, and they all take a step back in implicit recognizance of the matriarch. “Muhammad, Ismail, you have barely greeted your brother properly, or told us what you are doing here. As for whoever Yusuf may have brought here, they are my guests and under the protection of our family. And if I have approved of them, then surely you would not think of gainsaying me?”</p><p>Muhammad wilts under his mother’s withering stare, and Yusuf hides a smile. For all Maryam’s softness, she can be hard as steel when the situation calls for it. There is another awkward pause. Then Muhammad says, “I apologize for bursting into your house so early, Mother. But the tale that we had from the spies in the marketplace demanded a… prompt investigation.”</p><p>“In case your poor old mother had broken the emir’s rules?” Maryam utters a scoff to rival Ismail’s. She has never entirely gotten along with her father-in-law, and while she made no attempt to prevent her sons from entering their grandfather’s service, she stubbornly refuses to come see them at Hasan’s court. “What, might I be dragged off in chains?”</p><p>“Of course not, Mother,” Ismail says, trying to be conciliatory. “We just – ”</p><p>“Excuse me?” The voice comes from behind them. “Is everything – ”</p><p>Yusuf makes an abortive move, but it’s no good. Nile, holding a blanket around her shoulders and blinking sleepily, inserts a timid head into the room – and thus, to his brothers, it is like sharks on the scent of blood. They both rear back, whirl to stare at each other, stare at Yusuf, stare at Maryam, and stare at Nile, who realizes her error likewise too late and tries in vain to backtrack. Then they demand in incredulous unison, “Is that a <em>human?”</em></p><p>At least, Yusuf supposes grimly, they didn’t say <em>dirt-blood. </em>He wonders if Nile can understand them – obviously she can see them and the house, but she’s within the walls of the djinn city and thus its magic, so everything is as real to her as her own world, unlike when she couldn’t see Sa’id and the ifrit in Jerusalem. He takes a step, trying to put himself between Nile and his brothers. “That’s just a stray I’ve picked up along the way. No interest to you.”</p><p>“No interest?” Ismail looks at him with utter incredulity. “You’re bringing lost humans home? Is this your bedmate? That’s all they’re good for, isn’t it?”</p><p>“She is not, damn you,” Yusuf snarls. He is losing any patience to play nice with these oafs. “Our mother says she is under her protection, so – ”</p><p>Just as he’s trying to elbow Nile out and figures that he will apologize to her later – a djinn apologizing to a human master? He doesn’t know what’s come over him – there’s a second tread in the hall, and this, as of course it does, gets worse. “What’s this?” It’s Nicolò’s voice, sharp and questioning. “I thought there was – ”</p><p>Muhammad and Ismail look at each other again, realize that all their worst fears have been confirmed, and don’t wait for Nicolò to cross the threshold before they pounce. There’s a blur, a flash of flame – Yusuf swears at the top of his lungs and plunges after them – and by the time he reaches the hallway an instant later, the mayhem is general. There’s a whirling blur of fists, fangs, boots, and blows, scrabbling, swearing in a rich variety of languages, the scent of blood both cold and hot, and Yusuf – he doesn’t know why – just snaps.</p><p>He doesn’t waste time on words. He throws himself on Muhammad’s back and wrenches him brutally away, knocking him off balance long enough to clock him in the jaw. Muhammad staggers, but he’s a trained and hardened warrior and he’s taken worse in friendly scuffles. He goes for the saif at his waist – was this the reason he kept it on? – and Yusuf snatches out his own dagger to block it. Ismail is still on top of Nicolò, whaling away, and Yusuf can hear the vampire struggling beneath the big djinn’s weight and heat. He kicks at Muhammad, runs at Ismail, seizes his sash and yanks him – he can hear Maryam screaming at the top of her lungs, ordering her sons to cease this nonsense at once – he sees stars from a brutal punch to the back of the head from Muhammad, and Yusuf is momentarily dazed enough to lose track of the confrontation. Then he gathers himself, lowers his head like a battering ram, and charges.</p><p>Ismail is running the other way, determined to flatten Nicolò like an insect, and he’s left himself just open enough that Yusuf buries the crown of his skull directly into his brother’s gut. His momentum does the rest. Ismail flies ten feet straight backward, hits the wall with an almighty crash as the candles sway wildly in their chandeliers (there are no lamps kept in a jinn home for obvious reasons), and Yusuf throws his dagger at him before he can get up. It isn’t iron, so it will just inconvenience Ismail rather than wounding him, and even if it <em>was </em>iron, Ismail is obviously also Banu Zawba’ah, so he has their family’s heightened resilience. This does leave him empty-handed to take on Muhammad, which is a problem, but his eldest brother seems shocked at the violence Yusuf has mounted in defense of this foreign vampire, and does not move. (Yusuf himself is shocked too, mind.) Then he gets over it, and –</p><p>Just as they are about to crash together like a pair of titans, a slopping rivulet of water hits Yusuf for the second time in twenty-four hours, and he staggers backward, cursing. He blinks the stinging droplets out of his eyes and sees Maryam, white-faced and furious, holding a large bucket. There is a well in the house, since the servants need water for cleaning (many of them are half-bloods, so they have to drink it, and even jinn have to drink occasionally, since a being cannot live on fire or water alone), but for Maryam to take the drastic step of drenching her own sons means that she is very irritated indeed. Yusuf and Muhammad shake themselves, as Maryam glares them both into abject and cringing submission. Then she says, “That is <em>quite</em> enough of that.”</p><p>Ismail is slumped against the wall, wheezing and trying to pull out the dagger in his shoulder, and Nicolò – the ostensible cause of the commotion – is sitting up slowly and looking dazed. Nobody seems entirely sure what just happened. Maryam remains where she is, glaring bitterly at her disappointing offspring, and all of them, mighty warriors though they are, do not dare to meet her eyes. It’s clear that Muhammad expects her to take his side, as the eldest son manfully defending their family sanctum from being violated by an interloper, but Maryam thrusts a finger at him. “How <em>dare </em>you attack a guest in our home, your brother’s friend? Apologize!”</p><p>“He’s a bloodsucker, Mother!” Muhammad splutters, as if Maryam can have somehow failed to notice. “What is he doing here?!”</p><p>“Perhaps you could have opened your mouth and <em>asked him?”</em> Maryam’s look is so wrathful that Yusuf is glad not to be its target. “Allah the Great and Merciful defend me from sons who think that brains were given to men purely for decoration!”</p><p>Muhammad, who was on the verge of saying something else, decides that it’s not a smart move. He claps his mouth shut, then turns to Nicolò with sarcastically exaggerated politeness. “My apologies, vampire. What are you doing in our home?”</p><p>“As your mother said.” Nicolò, still a little breathless, gets to his feet, brushes himself off, and stalks with haughty grace across the floor to Yusuf – and then, before the stunned djinn can react, Nicolò throws an arm around his waist and pulls him close. “I’m your brother’s… friend.”</p><p>He manages to give the word an inflection at once perfectly innocent and undeniably suggestive, and a thrill of horror bolts through Yusuf at the realization that this is Nicolò’s revenge. Even if delivered with a velvet glove rather than a steel gauntlet, it still makes itself explicit, and in a far cleverer way than if Nicolò merely repudiated him. He seems to have decided that if he’s already going to have a hard time from Muhammad and Ismail, there’s nothing to be lost on his part with this little announcement, and it drags Yusuf into the same line of fire; his brothers will lose no opportunity to interrogate him ruthlessly about his too-cozy synergy with a bloodsucker. Not to mention, it makes him look like the churl if he fails to defend his <em>dear friend </em>from the vicissitudes of the al-Kaysani family – and it might not even be a lie, seeing as he <em>did </em>just attack Muhammad and Ismail for their intemperate treatment of Nicolò. Allah defend him indeed, Yusuf thinks, as Nicolò’s arm tightens around his waist and he repents every sin he can possibly remember and some he can’t. The vampire, it turns out, is a diabolical genius.</p><p>Maryam stares at the two of them with something that is both surprise and isn’t. She doesn’t seem to think this is implausible, at least, and Yusuf prays that his mother can’t read whatever is on his face right now. There’s a very long pause. Then she whirls on the still-groaning Ismail, claps her hands, and says, “See. He is your brother’s friend. Now get up, the three of you, and clean this hallway, by hand. I will not insult the servants by asking them to do it on your behalf. Then if you are finished trying to destroy this house and kill each other not the least by your shameful manners, return to the solar, and we will talk.”</p><p>With that, she makes an imperious gesture at Nicolò, and the bastard – only too happy to leave Yusuf to suffer – sweeps off after her with an air of vindicated vindictive vampiric victory. (Try saying that five times fast.) This leaves Yusuf, Muhammad, and Ismail to tidy up the aftermath of their confrontation, and Yusuf can feel their eyes boring holes through his head. They know about Sa’id, as demonstrated by the fact that they were just taking the piss out of him about it, and since there is no particular taboo among the jinn against taking lovers either male or female, their ribbing has focused on the fact that Sa’id is a crown prince, the Golden One’s heir, the scion of their great rival, rather than that he is a man. Likewise, they do not object to Nicolò’s sex so much as his bloodsucking status; it would be the same if Yusuf had brought home a female vampire who declared herself his <em>friend. </em>He resolutely avoids his brothers’ gazes. He is going to stake Nicolò the next chance he gets. Preferably slowly.</p><p>At last, when they have reconstituted the hallway as much as possible, Muhammad conjures a gleam of magic to mend the rest, leaving it looking better than it did before the fight. They troop mutinously down to the solar, knock, and show themselves in. Maryam is engaged in polite conversation with Nile and Nicolò, as if to demonstrate that not everybody in this house is so uncivil. But they break off at the sight of the brothers, and a crackling silence falls over the room. Then Maryam rises to her feet and says, “Now. Shall we speak like civilized creatures?”</p><p>“Yes,” Muhammad says stiffly. “I would like an apology from my brother for this ridiculous – ”</p><p>“I would like an apology from <em>you </em>for <em>this </em>ridiculous – you shouldn’t have just burst in and trampled all over a situation you didn’t – ”</p><p>“You shouldn’t be fucking a vampire!” Muhammad barks, as Yusuf prays to every deity known to man or jinn that Nicolò can’t understand them. They’re speaking Daevic, and he doesn’t <em>think </em>so, but as well demonstrated, he would be unwise to count on it. “Especially this vampire, some Frank with the stench of the Christians all over him, who sees our people as doubly demons and infidels and will lead another army of crusaders against us if we – ”</p><p>“If you don’t want him to think we’re demons, perhaps you shouldn’t have tried to kill him on sight!” Yusuf snarls back, as if he has any leg whatsoever to stand on when it comes to making this argument. Both of them are jostling at each other, desperate to pick up where they left off, and Ismail grabs them each by an arm and pulls them backward. He pulls Yusuf especially hard, in retaliation for that dagger in the shoulder. Maryam clears her throat with a thunderous sound, and the boys loathingly leave off, but Yusuf is unable to resist a parting shot. “Besides. <em>I </em>was the one who fought the Frankish crusaders last time, while you two were lounging in splendor at Grandfather’s court. So don’t act like you’re the authority.”</p><p>Muhammad opens his mouth, shuts it at another searing look from their mother, and growls under his breath. The tension in the room remains at boiling point until Maryam says, “Anything else, or may we proceed?”</p><p>“No, Mother,” Muhammad says politely. “I can deal with Yusuf later.”</p><p>Before Yusuf can snap anything back about how he can try it if he dares, Maryam ruthlessly interrupts and switches to Arabic, the language of which all present have at least some working knowledge. “The vampire is Nicolò di Genova. The human girl is Nile Nesanet. They have arrived in our home, as you both noticed so impolitely, with your brother Yusuf. They are my guests and under our family’s protection, and any harm to them will reflect badly on our honor and our respect for the law of hospitality. Besides, they have come to us on a grave matter. As you might have stopped to learn before launching an assault, Yusuf has told me that the Night Riders are after them. You will, I hope, agree that this is the greater concern.”</p><p>That succeeds in making Muhammad and Ismail blink as if something heavy has been swung into their faces. They make startled and angry noises, then glare at Yusuf. “I already knew the Golden One was wroth with you,” Muhammad says. “What did you do now to get the Black King and his hordes after you to boot?”</p><p>“I didn’t – ” Yusuf shoots a furious look at Nicolò. If the useless vampire expects anyone to believe that they are <em>friends, </em>this would be an opportune time for him to speak up and repay Yusuf for that spirited defense earlier. Except that Nicolò is still holding a grudge for learning that Yusuf let the Ring of Sulaiman slip through their fingers, and just wants him to twist in the wind. “It’s a long story, it – ”</p><p>“It isn’t his fault,” Nicolò interrupts. “Well, mostly. The girl found a ring in Jerusalem and accidentally summoned him. He’s been scrambling to figure it out ever since.”</p><p>“Yes, you said she found a ring.” Maryam looks at Nile, then at Yusuf, who is still too shocked from Nicolò actually saying something remotely supportive to muster a response. “Which ring? There cannot be many of those simply lying around. Was it a slave vessel, perhaps? If that is so, perhaps you could use it to – ”</p><p>She stops, but not before all three of the al-Kaysani brothers have time to hear the name of the fourth brother, the lost one, hanging in the air. Maryam was clearly going to suggest that they use the Ring (even if she doesn’t know that it is <em>the </em>Ring) to find Musa’s lamp, to see if he is still bound and can be released, and at that, Yusuf feels his resolve to keep the Ring away from his family take an almighty blow. How can he do that, how can he be so selfish, when he was just confessing to Nicolò how supremely guilty he feels about it? If he could use the Ring to find Musa and finally, <em>finally</em> free him, to right the greatest wrong of his life, he should. He has to. Then even Nicolò can use it for whatever he wants it for, providing that it’s not to lead a bloodsucker conquest of the world, and for better or worse, Yusuf doesn’t think so. Nicolò could be lying when he says that he has nothing in common with the rest of his kind, no connection, but it has an uncomfortable ring of truth.</p><p>“It wasn’t a slave vessel,” Yusuf says, his voice sounding raw and rusty in his throat. He takes a deep breath, argues with himself one last time, and can’t see anything else for it. He’ll be punished if he keeps this secret and they find out some other way, and if he can’t trust his family, he really can’t trust anyone. “Or at least, not an ordinary one. It was – at least I strongly think so, and everything I have heard since supports the idea – the Ring of Sulaiman.”</p><p>That, as might be expected, sets off a small explosion in the solar. Everyone starts shouting at once, particularly Muhammad and Ismail, and even Nile and Nicolò look startled that this secret has been thrown out into the open. Maryam presses a hand to her mouth and turns to Yusuf, her eyes brimming with shock and disbelief and desperate hope. “The Ring of <em>S – </em>Yusuf, that can’t – if that were true, we – ”</p><p>“The Ring of <em>Sulaiman?” </em>It’s Muhammad who interjects first. It’s hard to say whether he wants to call Yusuf a lunatic or pray that he’s right. “If we could recover that for the Banu Zawba’ah, we could – we could <em>finally </em>overthrow the Golden One, we could be the most powerful kingly house in all of our people’s lands, we could – ”</p><p>“I knew you were going to say that!” Yusuf separates himself from his brothers and strides across the floor to Nile and Nicolò, standing in front of them and glaring. “That the instant you knew it was the Ring of Sulaiman, you’d start going mad with fantasies about all the ways we could start a war! I don’t like the Golden One any more than you, believe me. But are you truly insane enough to think that you could use the <em>Ring of Sulaiman </em>to bring him down? Allah only granted possession of the Ring to one man in all of <em>history! </em>You think Grandfather doesn’t like Sulaiman’s curse now? How do you think he would like it if the Banu Zawba’ah stole the Ring and tried to make ourselves all-powerful – the exact reason our entire race was punished in the first place? That might make a little temple-building look like a vacation! If our clan had the Ring, there is nothing, <em>nothing </em>that all six other kings, not to mention every magical creature in the world, would stop at to take it from us! It’s too powerful! It would destroy us!”</p><p>Muhammad, Ismail, and Maryam all blink at the angry passion of this speech. Nicolò looks down quickly, as if to stop Yusuf from seeing the startled soft smile on his face – a smile that does awful things to his insides, makes them feel like a writhing knot of fire serpents. Muhammad, of course, is not ready to concede defeat so easily. “We don’t know that Allah would punish us,” he argues stubbornly. “You said yourself that He only granted the Ring to one man, and Sulaiman has been dead for thousands of years. And if our family had the Ring, don’t you think that Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab would be forced to agree that you were a suitable match for him? You could have your beloved golden prince back, Yusuf. Not that any of us really know what you see in him, but – ”</p><p>At that, Nicolò’s face changes again, in some oblique way that shuts his smile off like a quenched flame, and he looks away sharply. That is confusing, but Yusuf does not have time to dwell on it. He wishes that Muhammad had not so expertly targeted his weakness. All along, the idea has been that the only way to regain Sa’id’s favor was to humbly present him with the Ring, the ultimate token of loyalty, no matter what the Golden One would do with it. But if Yusuf took the Ring himself, if he did not come bowing and scraping and groveling for respect, but demanded it, presented himself as an equal without debate, and not an up-jumped servant –</p><p><em>No, </em>he reminds himself. <em>No, don’t get carried away. </em>The fact remains, as he told Nile the first time, that he is unable to physically touch the Ring himself without becoming bound to it as a slave, not a master. No jinn except for the most ancient and powerful – such as one of the kings, be it the Golden One, Barqan the Black, Zawba’ah, or any of the others – can control the Ring, and even that is speculation because none of them have actually tried. The Ring has only ever been touched and wielded by human hands: Sulaiman’s. And for that matter –</p><p>Yusuf glances at Nile, who is watching this family argument with intent curiosity. All along he – and she – have operated on the assumption that it was just a quirk of fate, a chance encounter, a crazy old brass salesman, nothing more, which brought the Ring into her possession. But the fact remains that she is the only being in all of history, magical or mortal, who has successfully used it after Sulaiman. They have not begun to consider what that might mean. Who <em>is </em>this girl? She is from some village in Dembiya, near the headwaters of the Blue Nile in Ethiopia, that is all Yusuf knows. Entirely human, but so was Sulaiman. Who is her father, this deceased Nesanet? Who is her family? He has seen Nile as mostly an encumbrance, who he has to protect and cart around because he’s bound by the wish, even if he can’t deny that he’s getting used to her and wouldn’t stand for Muhammad and Ismail to call her <em>dirt-blood </em>to her face. She’s brave, that cannot be denied, and has borne up under all this dramatic supernatural garbage with admirable fortitude. He thought she was just lucky to learn so quickly how to wield the Ring, and that was why he wanted her away from it, but if it’s not an accident –</p><p>Yusuf makes a note to find out more about Nile’s background in a hopefully unsuspicious way, even though he isn’t sure how he is going to do that. (He could just ask her, but that seems dangerous.) There is a long pause. Then Muhammad says, “Do you know where the Ring is?”</p><p>“I knew where it used to be,” Yusuf says. “Where we hid it.”</p><p>“Then we must fetch it.” Muhammad looks at him askance. “At once. If you think – ”</p><p>“I think,” Yusuf interrupts roughly, “I already saw one of my brothers trapped, torn apart, and confined to an eternity of servitude once, because I meddled in ancient magic that I did not understand and did not take seriously. I don’t like you very much, Muhammad, you know that. But you’re still my brother, and if nothing else, I don’t suppose that our mother wants to lose another son in this way. Especially if we have some wild idea of rescuing Musa.”</p><p>Maryam flinches at the name of her third son. Nile looks a little blindsided. Before anyone else can speak, Yusuf goes on, “I don’t deny that we have to retrieve it, even if to find a safer hiding place. But if anyone here is arrogant enough to think they would just stretch out their hand, put on the Ring, and become master of the universe, I implore you to reconsider. If you’re planning to be idiots, there’s no way I’m taking you or anyone there. So think about <em>that.”</em></p><p>“All right,” Muhammad says. “So you know what we have to do, yes?”</p><p>“What?” Yusuf is suspicious. “Ask Grandfather? I’m not sure that’s – ”</p><p>“More than that.” Muhammad smiles grimly. “We have to ask <em>Great</em>-Grandfather.”</p><p>“You mean – ?” As noted, Yusuf has never actually met his formidable four-headed great-grandfather, Zawba’ah Abu Hasan the Cyclone, King of Friday, Venus, Green, and Iron, and he can’t say he’s in any haste for an introduction. “If <em>he </em>knew that his descendants could claim the Ring of Sulaiman, he would order us to do anything in order to get it. So I don’t – ”</p><p>“You said the Night Riders were after you.” Muhammad crosses his arms. “I don’t think you realize how terrifying they actually are, Yusuf. The Black King knows magic stronger and darker than any of us, and the Banu Barqan are feared across the world. The Night Riders are the most feared of <em>them. </em>If you want any chance of both getting the Ring and living long enough to do anything with it, you – and we – will need Great-Grandfather’s help.”</p><p>That silences Yusuf. His previous encounters with the Night Riders have been alarming, yes, and he does know that it was sheer luck that got him away – Andromache and Quynh the first time, and then Nile realizing that she could wish them out of the cave. He <em>did </em>come to Egypt in the hope of recruiting his family’s help, after all. He doesn’t doubt that Muhammad has his heart set on retrieving the Ring for the Banu Zawba’ah however possible, and that he will bargain, batter, wheedle, war, compromise, and connive in the service of this aim, even if it temporarily looks like he’s being helpful. Finally Yusuf says, “Have <em>you </em>ever met King Zawba’ah?”</p><p>“Briefly,” Ismail says, somewhat unexpectedly. He doesn’t do much talking; he tends to serve as the muscle, Muhammad’s devoted lieutenant. “It was after we first joined Grandfather’s court. It was a ceremonial visit, a confirmation of our lineage as princes of the blood. He took on a human form for the audience, though he still had horns.”</p><p>“Right,” Yusuf mutters. He doesn’t like this, and he isn’t sure that it’s a good thing that he’s been swayed, but the shining prospect of rescuing Musa hangs too terribly close at hand. “So could you arrange it? A visit to the City of Iron?”</p><p>There’s a slight communal shudder, a coldness in the air that comes with speaking the words, the fabled magical city that serves as King Zawba’ah’s seat and center of power. It’s hard to say where it is located in the human world, because it can move wherever it wants. It could be in the hot sands of Ifriqiya, or the dreaming minarets of Arabia, or far, far away in the towering white mountains of the Tian Shan, anywhere in the world where jinn roam the winds. It is also a place not entered lightly even for Yusuf himself, a fellow prince of the blood, a descendant of Zawba’ah. To take Nile and Nicolò there, if he thought it was a risk to bring them to Cairo –</p><p>One thing at a time. He shakes it off and looks at Muhammad. “Well? Could you?”</p><p>“I could,” Muhammad says slowly. “But I have to warn you that even I couldn’t tell you what to expect if we went.”</p><p>“It was your idea that we involve Great-Grandfather,” Yusuf reminds him, in case anybody thought that bringing Zawba’ah into this was his idea. “We could take our chances with the Night Riders and not mention it to him at all, if you thought that would work.”</p><p>“No,” Muhammad says, with a deep sigh. “I don’t think it would. Fine. I’ll return to Grandfather’s court immediately and see what I can arrange. I will be most discreet, since we do not need word of the Ring getting out to anyone else. As long as it is our secret alone, we have an advantage. I’m still going to kill you later, Yusuf. Good day, Mother. Ismail, come.”</p><p>Having issued that brusque set of farewells, Muhammad marches out of the solar, and Ismail, making a brief reverence to his mother, does the same. That leaves Yusuf with Maryam, Nile, and Nicolò, all of whom look different degrees of stunned. It’s too late to mention that the Ring isn’t really a secret, and he has already shared its more-or-less location with two mysterious immortal witches claiming to have served the Queen of Saba. He’ll add that when Muhammad gets back, perhaps, but he’s had enough arguments with his brothers for one day. He isn’t sure that this is the right thing to do, but they’re committed to it. Ya Allah, families are exhausting.</p><p>Yusuf glances through the window at the sundial; it’s early afternoon, and he hasn’t slept in he doesn’t know how long, as his previous attempt to do so was interrupted by Nicolò, and then his brothers turned up. As Maryam is getting up to leave, still shaking her head, Yusuf catches up with her. “Mama, Nicolò was using Musa’s room. Should you tell him that he – ?”</p><p>“It is an empty room,” Maryam points out, with a certain admirable pragmatism. “And he is a guest, entitled to sleep in any bed beneath our roof. But since you are <em>friends</em>, perhaps you wish for him to share your chambers instead?”</p><p>Yusuf flinches. <em>Congratulations, </em>he thinks, <em>you have outwitted yourself. </em>“Mama, it’s not – ”</p><p>“Your chambers, yes,” Maryam goes on, as if he has not spoken. “I will inform Nicolò where they are. You should go to the mosque for asr prayer, Yusuf. It would be a good deed.”</p><p>All of this is delivered in a tone that makes it clear she neither expects nor will tolerate objection, and Yusuf snaps his mouth shut. He thus escapes out of the house, tries to remain inconspicuous for a hour or two until the muezzins call asr, and enters the small neighborhood mosque on the corner, which is beautifully paneled in blue and gold, engraved in gilded Kufic script, and lit with magical columns of colored fire in open brass pots. He stops by the fountain of glowing golden sand, which Muslim jinn use to make their ritual ablutions rather than water, and cleanses himself, then pulls his keffiyeh closer around his head, trying to hide his face. He doesn’t want anyone noticing him and asking questions, or spreading the news that he is home.</p><p>Yusuf kneels in the shafts of glorious afternoon sun, the mosque full of transcendent light that is ethereal even without magic, and is glad to lower his face to the ground as he begins the prayer with the other dozen or so faithful who have left their workday to attend to their religious obligation. Most of the jinn who live in Cairo are Muslim, because it is closely connected with the law and culture of the city’s human masters, though there are a few fire temples for those who keep the Daevic rites (and periodic religious scuffles, as there are everywhere). Yusuf tries to remain focused on the familiar motions of the rakat, but something continues to pull at him. Not just the fear of going to the City of Iron and finally meeting his great-grandsire, but for some inexplicable reason, the look on Nicolò’s face when he heard about Sa’id. But it means nothing. It <em>is </em>nothing. What should Yusuf do? Tell him <em>more?</em> That seems even more dangerous.</p><p>Furious with himself, Yusuf wrestles his mind back to the solemn holiness of prayer, and manages to finish in something like devoted attention. When it’s done, he gets up quickly and hurries out, not wanting to invite any conversation with his fellows, and leans on the sun-scorched wall outside, trying to control himself. Just because he has had <em>one </em>civil conversation with Nicolò does not mean that they are not enemies. He almost wishes that Muhammad is right about Nicolò wanting to lead some new crusader army, because at least it would be easier to remember why he hates him. <em>It should be enough that he is a vampire, fool. </em>Hasn’t Yusuf done this enough, indeed with Prince Sa’id himself? Spending himself away for nothing, giving up everything, and getting his heart broken as a result?</p><p>He inhales a deep breath, and reminds himself that under no circumstances is he in <em>love </em>with Nicolò, that is utterly absurd. He has given up nothing that he cannot take back, and if he is wise, he never will. As long as he remembers, he is vigilant. With that, he straightens up, hopes that he has done his duty both filial and religious for the day, and goes home.</p><p>The rest of the afternoon slips past like an hourglass. By that evening, Muhammad and Ismail have not yet returned; who knows how long it might take to arrange a surprise visit to the City of Iron, and Yusuf is glad of a chance to collect himself, even if they do need to get back to the Ring. He has to agree that his decision to leave it hidden in Petra (though not unguarded, he <em>did </em>work all those spells on it) smacks of something close to madness, but it was the only choice he had at the time. He eats supper with Maryam, Nile, and Nicolò, performs maghrib and isha prayers in the solar with the household, and goes out into the courtyard to sit and look at the stars as it gets dark. They always calm him, and he should take advantage of not being attacked or running for his life while he can. It seems as if that will once more soon be on the agenda.</p><p>At last, when it is well dark, Yusuf gets up and goes inside, up to his room, finally starting to feel the full impact of his lack of sleep; his eyes are burning, his body aches, and he desperately wants to collapse into paramount unconsciousness for a day or so. (Not that he thinks he will be at leisure to do that, but still.) He reaches the end of the corridor, pushes the door open, and –</p><p>He almost swallows his tongue.</p><p>Right. Maryam informing him that perhaps his <em>friend </em>would like to share his bedchamber, and Nicolò either failing to realize that the room in question was Yusuf’s, or realizing it anyway and stubbornly moving in just to torment him, as if Yusuf has not suffered enough. The vampire is stretched out on the cushions and pillows of Yusuf’s bed, and Yusuf – remembering how much he startled him last time – remains where he is. At least, <em>Alhamdulillah</em>, Nicolò is wearing clothes, though he has kicked his boots off and undone the laces on his tunic, and the look of him – how he <em>fits</em> there, how he looks comfortable and off guard, not the prickly, barbed bloodsucker Yusuf has scuffled with, but the haunted man who confessed that he killed his sister by accident because he wished so badly not to be alone –</p><p>Yusuf starts to spin around, deciding that he’s going to sleep in Musa’s room after all rather than deal with this, but Nicolò sees him. He sits up in a flash. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“This is my room.” Yusuf puts his hands behind his back, just in case. “Did my mother not tell you that?”</p><p>“Your mother?” Nicolò looks even more baffled. “One of the maidservants showed me here instead of the old one. I presume it was on your mother’s orders, but – ”</p><p>Yusuf curses to himself. Their eyes lock. The earth moves, or it only feels like it. Now it seems ungallant to boot the vampire out, even if he should. It is <em>his </em>bed, he has every right to pull rank. He tries to say something, but it comes out as a strangled croak. Finally he says, “I’ll… just… go.”</p><p>“Wait.” Nicolò swings off the bed and stands up in his bare feet. His uncanny paleness is less noticeable in this low light; he looks almost golden. “If it’s your room, I’ll just – ”</p><p>He seems equally determined to get out of here, which Yusuf tries not to take personally. Cheeks burning, he decides it’s best, and tries to stand aside, but he inadvertently moves in the same direction that Nicolò is going, and they bump shoulders. Then they again move in the same direction, and bump the other shoulder for good measure. It is truly the most pathetic example of trying to exit a room that has ever been witnessed, and both of them catch each other’s eye and finally let out a mortified giggle. It occurs to Yusuf to wonder if Nicolò has been fed; he cannot eat Maryam’s delicious cooking, after all, and it is impolite to let a guest starve as much as it is to sic your brothers on him, even by accident. Not that he is going to ask. Nicolò is a grown vampire and can surely shift for himself. Yusuf manages to move aside, this time without running into him, and makes a gesture. “Musa’s room is – you know.”</p><p>“Right.” Nicolò’s voice is a little clipped. “Of course, you were upset about me sleeping in it earlier, but I suppose that’s preferable. That’s – entirely preferable. Especially – ”</p><p>He pauses. Then, taking Yusuf utterly by surprise, he blurts out, “Who’s Prince Sa’id?”</p><p>“What?” Yusuf goggles at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”</p><p>“Your brother mentioned him earlier.” Nicolò’s shoulders are unaccountably tense, and he seems to be having a hard time getting the words out. “I just thought – if he was going to cause further problems in this enterprise, I might be entitled to know more about him.”</p><p>“You’re not entitled to anything,” Yusuf says, and regrets his choice of words instantly at the look on Nicolò’s face. That’s not what he <em>meant</em>, he meant – ah, fuck it. “He’s not – he’s not important. He’s just – all right, he’s the Golden One’s son, and he used to be my lover. I did think about giving the Ring to him, but if I did manage to master it somehow and I came back not as his servant, but as his equal, we could – ”</p><p>He has just enough time to register that Nicolò’s face has gotten even stranger-looking, and thinks too late that perhaps the vampires, or certainly the Catholics, have stricter proscriptions about love among men. (In that case, Nicolò needs to read some of the ghazals, the medieval Arabic love poems that can valorize it as much as the love of women, especially the ribald khamriyyat of that rascal Abu Nuwas.) “It’s not – ” Yusuf repeats again. “I mean, it’s not really any of your business, so – ”</p><p>He means this to be encouraging, but Nicolò’s look turns even stonier. “Ah, yes,” he repeats tonelessly. “It is not my business. Nor was the truth of the Ring in the first place. Well then. I wish you all good success with this plan. Good evening.”</p><p>With that – as Yusuf is wondering what on earth just happened, if he wanted this or if he didn’t, reminding himself yet again that this is for the best, he didn’t even lie – Nicolò pushes past. He seems about to look back, to say something, but he doesn’t. He just stays where he is for a long moment, fists clenched, shoulders hunched. Then he vanishes from sight with a vampire’s paramount grace, and leaves Yusuf standing there by himself in the dark.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is a fortunate thing indeed that vampires do not require sleep every night, for Nicolò cannot imagine seeking it out now. In fact, he finds himself possessed with a wild urge to be as far away from this house as possible, to go into the human half of Cairo and have a feed, and he is halfway out the door before it occurs to him that he might not be able to get back. Yusuf said that they could not pass into the jinn city without him, and Nicolò does not want to run the risk of ending up entirely cut off. But then, something hot and angry whispers inside him, why shouldn’t he go? Yusuf and his beloved Prince Sa’id, this perfect scion of the perfect Golden One, appear to have it under control.</p><p>Nicolò hesitates, wondering if he should ask Maryam for some token by which he will be able to return into djinni Cairo. But she will be confused and alarmed to see her guest sneaking out at this hour; it is late, it is dark, and even the most tolerant of hostesses could not help but wonder if the foreign Frankish vampire has some evil purpose in the shadows. Finally, feeling like a thief, as if he has been welcomed into the home only to throw that back in their faces, Nicolò grabs a small clay seal from the sideboard, something that looks like it’s used to stamp the wax on messages. If this isn’t enough – he’ll worry about that later. His blood is pounding in his head, these are his waking hours, and if he stays here, he’ll do something foolish in an as-yet unspecified capacity. Getting space, some fresh air, seems not only advisable but necessary.</p><p>It’s still hot as an oven when he steps out of the house and into the streets. It’s almost June, the summer is only building, and the buildings shimmer with a heat haze, as well as magic. Candles and lanterns and torches burn behind windows, casting slants of enchanted light onto the dark streets, and he can hear talk and laughter, mostly in Daevic, which he does not understand. Nicolò feels like the ghouls of legend, wandering among living people and unable to join in their company. A sudden yearning for djinni blood burns through him. He tasted Yusuf’s, after all, and it was heavenly. He will satisfy himself with the usual humans, if he must, but there is something else besides hunger in him tonight, and it aches.</p><p>Nicolò tries to rely on his vague recollection of the turnings they took, in order to return to the gate that leads back to human Cairo. He doesn’t want to wander too long alone in the magical half of it, especially after the dust-up with Yusuf’s obnoxious brothers, though part of him might welcome a fight. He doesn’t know why. It chafes him like a burr, like something under his skin he can’t get rid of. He’s never felt like this before. He hopes it isn’t some bizarre vampiric mutation that inexplicably waited for this moment to start. Maybe it’s bloodthirst. He hasn’t been eating much.</p><p>Finally, Nicolò stumbles into the splendid city square where they arrived, spots the archway – on the jinn side, it’s far more imposing than the humble clay edifice in a dark back alley – and blunders through without remembering to conduct a test as to whether the seal can get him back in. By the time he thinks of it, he’s already well away in the human side of Cairo, among the mudbrick apartments and dusty lanes of the poorer districts, even as the Fatimid palaces tower on their hills, oblivious in their splendor. It is bizarre to stand here and see absolutely no hint of the beautiful city that he was just in; it is entirely cloaked in magic, existing simultaneously inside and outside the accustomed physical space of Cairo. There are plenty of downtrodden humans here who would, as usual, be willing to take a few coins in exchange for a feed, but the prospect suddenly seems wrong, sour, unbearable. God have mercy, <em>what </em>is wrong with him?</p><p>In total despair, Nicolò thinks that he’ll go for a run in the nighttime desert, catch something out there worth feeding on, and burn off some of this wild, manic vigor that almost makes him afraid of himself. He can of course pass totally unseen to human eyes, and the sentries on the gate once more have no idea that he’s there as he slips through, out into the moon-washed sands. The pyramids loom on the far side of the Nile, cutting triangular shadows out of the dark sky. The air is thick and warm as black velvet. He is not so overwrought as to dismiss the possibility that the Night Riders might return and pick him off unguarded, but he does not have the Ring of Solomon and he is no tempting prize. Besides, Yusuf said that this is his family’s territory, under the rule of King Zawba’ah. They can’t come here. That’s the whole point.</p><p>Nicolò shakes his head hard. He does not want to think about Zawba’ah or any of the jinn right now, especially the Golden One. He turns south, following the silken black ribbon of the river, and starts to run.</p><p>He has been running for long enough that Cairo has disappeared behind him, and there is nothing but the trackless open wilds, the distant sounds of the water and the sigh of the wind across the sands, when a shadow swoops overhead, cutting off the moonlight – and then an instant later, a second one. Nicolò thinks it’s just hawks, bats, or some other nocturnal creature, but then he catches an entirely different scent, and pulls up hard enough that he skids. He whirls around, cursing his reckless decision not to bring a sword – not that he needs one, he can fight with teeth and claws well enough – just as one of the shadows lands lightly on the nearest dune, resolves into the shape of a woman, and says, “You must be Nicolò di Genova.”</p><p>He stares at her, just as the second shadow touches down behind him, likewise turns into a woman, and he knows who they are, even though they have not (until now) met in person. They are none other than the two witches who stole his manuscript in Jerusalem, the ones he saw with Yusuf and Nile in the water of Rabbi Samuel’s scrying bowl, who he followed to the cave in hopes of retrieving it only to find them already gone. What did Yusuf call them? He struggles for the names. If they want to kill him, presumably they would not have asked for an introduction, but –</p><p>“What do you want?” he says, his voice low and harsh. “Who exactly are you?”</p><p>The nearest witch, the one who spoke, makes a sound of exasperation. She is tall and commanding, and clearly all too eager for a fight if Nicolò decides to make this difficult. “My name is Andromache,” she says. “That’s Quynh. Am I correct in thinking you have heard of us? Oh, and stop baring your fangs like that. I would regret having to dismember you.”</p><p>Nicolò hasn’t realized until that moment that he was, though he thinks it’s an entirely reasonable response to having two witches fly out of the night and surround you in a threatening fashion. He <em>did </em>arguably ask for this by dashing off on a brooding midnight run without telling anyone where he was going, however, and he snaps them out of sight. He does want some answers. “Do you have the – ”</p><p>“<em>Key of Solomon?” </em>the second witch, Quynh, finishes. “Yes. Not here, though, so you wouldn’t gain anything from attacking us to steal it back. Do you think we’re that stupid?”</p><p>Nicolò can’t recall that he’s thought anything specific about them. He has had more than enough of being ambushed by strange pairs of creatures today; first the jinn Muhammad and Ismail, now the witches Andromache and Quynh. “Where is it?” he says, though he has no expectation that they’ll tell him. “What do you want with it, anyway?”</p><p>“For now,” Andromache says coolly, “as leverage on you. You want it back, don’t you?”</p><p>“It’s my friend’s book,” Nicolò says. “Rabbi Samuel ben Kalonymus. I made him a promise that I would return it and help bring his family to safety.”</p><p>“And we could do that,” Andromache says, not missing a beat or bothering to ask who Rabbi Samuel is – for all Nicolò knows, she is well aware, has been scoping out the neighborhood for years. “We could do several things for you if you helped us, Nicolò. In case you’re wondering, we’ve already been to Petra, and we’ve looked for the Ring of Solomon. We couldn’t find it. Either the djinn’s concealment spells did their work, he was lying, or someone took it.”</p><p>At that, Nicolò debates whether to go back to Cairo sheerly for the pleasure of wringing Yusuf al-Kaysani’s neck. Yes, the djinn did say (inadvertently) that it was in Petra and that he had sent the witches there, and Nicolò’s own plan was to force Yusuf to take them back and retrieve it. He supposes that it’s good that they know this now, but it does nothing to dampen his utter exasperation. “So it’s lost. Again.”</p><p>“We would appreciate making sure of that,” Quynh says. “If your friend Yusuf placed the disguising enchantments on it, he might be the only one who could take them off. Perhaps you could tell us where to find him.” She smiles, slightly ferally. “We could have a chat.”</p><p>The idea of springing the witches on an unsuspecting Yusuf, in order to make up for the ambush by Muhammad and Ismail earlier (Nicolò can see where Yusuf gets his delightful manners) is very tempting. What comes out is, “He’s not my friend.”</p><p>“Oh?” Andromache arches one eyebrow in patent skepticism. “Then you will have no difficulty in telling us, as my partner says, where he presently is?”</p><p>Nicolò opens his mouth, then stops. There is Maryam, who has been nothing but gracious to him, and inviting witches to ransack her home and kidnap her son, however much said son deserves it, does not feel like the kindest of repayments. (To be fair, they haven’t actually <em>said </em>that they want to kidnap Yusuf, but that look in their eyes seems to heavily imply it.) Just as they have offered to return the manuscript and help Nicolò evacuate Rabbi Samuel and his family if he plays nicely, it’s entirely possible that things could turn a great deal less pleasant if he makes trouble. After another pause, he says, “How do you – how did you – know about me?”</p><p>“You are not so secret as you think,” Quynh remarks, which is something of a low blow to a vampire’s pride. “We have known of you for some time, but we spotted you when you were watching the old man’s corpse and waiting for someone to come find it. Do you recall?”</p><p>Nicolò curses to himself. Evidently while he was hidden in the shadows by Diyab the brass merchant’s body, unseen and unnoticed by the blond French soldier, someone else was watching him at the same time. It feels like some sort of sharply pointed metaphor for the veiled and labyrinthine nature of creature politics, layers upon layers of deception and intrigue. “And?” he asks coolly. “Did you go spying on the Frenchman too?”</p><p>“His name is Sebastien le Livre,” Andromache says, which seems to confirm that they did. “A servant of the Capetian king, from Paris, who traveled here on the Christians’ crusade and decided to stay after the capture of Jerusalem. He is working for somebody, but we have not been able to find out who. At first we thought it was King Baldwin, but it does not seem so.”</p><p>“Does Baldwin know?” Nicolò asks. “About the Ring of Solomon?”</p><p>“He suspects.” Quynh takes up the answer; she and Andromache seem to effortlessly complete each other’s thoughts and read each other’s minds, working as the sort of seamless team that Nicolò can only envy. “Of course he wants it. In fact, we believe the agent he has set on this task is someone different. A man named Stephen de Méric, an unpleasant boor who we watched pick a fight with a girl named Nile and her companions in a tavern one night in Jerusalem. We met her earlier. Is she still in company with Yusuf al-Kaysani?”</p><p>Nicolò tries not to let any recognition show in his face. He has to admit that he has become rather fond of Nile, for all that they still do not know each other very well and she beat him up embarrassingly, and if he is refraining from offering up Yusuf on a silver platter for his mother’s sake, he can likewise extend that forbearance to the human girl. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“You’re lying,” Andromache says. “Why?”</p><p>Nicolò looks at her guilelessly. He does not think that they are being altruistically forthcoming with all this information and expecting nothing in return. “Am I?”</p><p>“Very well.” Andromache shrugs muscled shoulders, the studs of her leather gambeson glinting in the moonlight. “But it would be easier to cooperate with us. As I said, we want to find the Ring of Solomon, just like you. What has the djinn told you about their plans?”</p><p>They seem to be abandoning the threadbare pretense that Nicolò doesn’t know where Yusuf is, and he shifts his weight uncomfortably. Finally he says, “Everyone wants to find it.”</p><p>“Including you, I’ll wager,” Quynh says, with wickedly precise intuition. “Let me guess why. Not fond of being a vampire, are you? You don’t seem like the type.”</p><p>“What – ” For all that this is, of course, exactly what he wants, Nicolò cannot help but bristle at being read for filth by a woman he has known for only a few moments. Quynh is a witch, which might explain it, but still. “What makes you think I’m not fond of being a vampire?”</p><p>Andromache and Quynh roll their eyes in unison, as if begging him not to insult their intelligence, and do not deign to answer that. “Do you want it,” Andromache says, “or not?”</p><p>“I… yes.” <em>Technically</em>, Nicolò supposes, it makes no difference whether he comes by the Ring via the machinations of Yusuf and the Banu Zawba’ah, or by cutting a deal with Andromache and Quynh. If it feels uncomfortably like treason of a more personal brand, he should just ignore it. Yusuf has repeatedly neglected to tell him numerous important details and clearly intends to prance in with the Ring on his finger for his <em>beloved </em>Prince Sa’id (who Nicolò really does hate an alarming amount for likewise having never met him). Nicolò can’t actually believe that the jinn would let him get anywhere near the Ring, even if he helped them in good faith; he can’t be so naïve as to do his best for his enemies and expect not to get savagely betrayed. He’s a useful tool for them, and not a very trusted one. They’ll keep him at arms’ length at every turn. Yusuf –</p><p>Nicolò looks down at the sand. He is honest and sensitive and self-reflective enough to know that despite his protestations about it being for Maryam and Nile, he still does not – for some <em>godforsaken </em>reason – actually want to give Yusuf up. <em>It’s not as if it will do you any good, you know. </em>The way everything went to hell between them the instant they opened up to each other about their lost siblings is only one reason. Yusuf is back with his people now, his family. It is his house, his mother, his brothers, his grandfather, his city, his tribe, his territory. All the control belongs to him. Again Nicolò hears Yusuf’s answer as he asked, like a fucking idiot, who Prince Sa’id was. <em>H</em><em>e’s the Golden One’s son, and he used to be my lover. It’s not really any of your business</em>. Fine. Nicolò can take a goddamned hint.</p><p>“I don’t think it’s useful for me to turn him over,” he says instead. If the witches want to bargain, very well, he can bargain. “I could return to Yusuf and Nile and gather more information. He and his brothers are planning to approach their great-grandfather, King Zawba’ah, for help in retrieving the Ring and not being immediately captured by the Night Riders. If you let me go with them, learn the details of the plan, I could find a way to communicate that to you.”</p><p>Andromache and Quynh exchange a very sharp look. It’s clear that the prospect of one of the Seven Jinn Kings (or rather, another, given this business with the Golden One and Barqan the Black) being brought into this is one to cause them considerable alarm. That makes, to the best of Nicolò’s knowledge, at least three of the kings with their fingers in the pie, and it is too optimistic to think that the other four won’t learn (or for that matter, don’t already know; they might be conducting their schemes where nobody has noticed). It’s clear that Yusuf’s fear about this tilting his people into civil war is far from unfounded, and Nicolò pushes away another writhe of guilt. This is splitting the difference. He’s not giving Yusuf up, but he’s not crossing his fingers and trusting in Muhammad and Ismail al-Kaysani’s dubious benevolence either. He’s making a backup plan, creating his own agency, lining up allies (if that is what Andromache and Quynh are) in case the visit to the City of Iron goes awry. Nicolò is not like Yusuf. He does not have a family. He does not have a home. He does not have any of his own kind that he can trust. He is alone. It is a dangerous place for a man. For a vampire, perhaps even more so.</p><p>“That might be agreeable,” Andromache says at last, as if trying not to reveal too quickly that Nicolò has made a compelling offer. “And you would in fact do that? Tell us?”</p><p>“Why not?” He holds her eyes with cool composure. “Didn’t you say we could help each other?”</p><p>Andromache seems to concede that very well, she did. At last she takes a plain iron ring out of her tunic and hands it to him. “Put that on and call into the south wind thrice for us, and we will come. Take care not to use it frivolously or before time; its magic is limited. In exchange for the information that you can provide to us, we will endeavor to find out more about Sebastien le Livre, Stephen de Méric, and any other persons who have an interest in this, as well as if the Ring is still hidden in Petra or has been stolen, whether by the Night Riders or anyone else. When our bargain is concluded, we will likewise give the<em> Key of Solomon </em>back to you and assist you in fulfilling your promise to Rabbi Samuel and his family. Deal?”</p><p>“Deal.” Nicolò reaches out, and witch and vampire curtly shake hands. Then he steps back, and with a whirl of sand and smoke, Andromache and Quynh are gone. There is something that might be their shadows passing once more over the silver face of the moon, and then the desert is once more silent. He is – as bitterly ever – alone.</p><p>Nicolò blows out a breath, discovering that his surge of rage-fueled energy has deserted him; he feels oddly exhausted for being sure that he could have run a thousand miles before dawn. It seems like a dispiritingly long way back to Cairo, but that is his own fault. He still has not fed, unless he stumbles on a jackal or a lost traveler or anything else. But he has done so relatively recently, in Jerusalem. He can go a while yet. He’s used to deprivation.</p><p>It takes Nicolò much longer to run back to Cairo than it did to run away from it, and it’s late enough – or rather early – that the edges of the eastern horizon are curling up in pearly grey by the time he is finally within sight of the city gates. He passes through, gets lost numerous times trying to make his way back to the archway, and finally finds it by sheer accident. Whether it is due to the seal he stole, or Andromache and Quynh making sure that their spy is able to return to his post, he enters the jinn city as the sky is turning from black to deep blue. He steals through the streets like the thief and traitor that he feels like, finally makes it back to the red gate, and into the courtyard and the dark, cool house. The candles are all out. It is silent and peaceful.</p><p>Nicolò stands there for a long moment, dusty and windswept and looking as if he enjoyed anything but a peaceful night. He steps out to the well in the courtyard and washes himself off, since he obviously cannot bathe in the golden flames of the <em>hammam, </em>and goes upstairs.</p><p>The doors on the second floor are closed, the household and its guests all fast asleep, and before he can order himself otherwise, Nicolò creeps down the corridor toward Yusuf’s room. He is not so mad as to go back in, not when he has been stingingly reminded not to presume, and because having made a plan to spy on the al-Kaysani family and turn the information over to the witches, it is better not to get too close and confuse the picture. But he halts at the door, which has drifted ajar in the soft night breeze, and looks through.</p><p>Yusuf is asleep, sprawled out on his bed, a faint furrow between his brows as if he does not rest entirely peacefully. He is shirtless, the covers draped low on his waist, and Nicolò suddenly finds it hard to swallow (or for that matter, breathe, which has to be acute for a vampire to notice). <em>Don’t, you fool. Don’t do this to yourself.  You made your choice, and he made his. It was a dream. You know it was. Not even that. Nothing. </em>They are unlike. They will always be unlike. It is best to be sure there is no chance of ever forgetting again.</p><p>Nonetheless, Nicolò stands there with an ache in his barely-beating heart that he cannot voice or understand or get around, and nothing to do except to feel it hurt. It feels like penance, as it always has, a reminder of what he is, and what he will always remain if he does not get the Ring of Solomon no matter what, no matter how. He looks at Yusuf again, imprinting the sight into some secret place in his soul. Then he turns away, slips down the hall to Musa al-Kaysani’s long-deserted room, shuts the door behind him, and lies down in the dark alone.</p><p>***</p><p>Nile wakes to the scent of fresh-baked bread, the light of the sun pouring through the filigreed wall, and the sound of voices, footsteps, and industrious clamor. She doesn’t move for a very long moment, as sleep only grudgingly relinquishes its hold on her body; her eyes still feel heavy as lead. She is the most comfortable she has been since this entire madcap adventure started, and possibly in her entire life. She’s engulfed in a heap of cloud-soft cushions, draped with tasseled silk coverings, and she feels like a princess. Yes, she will doubtless have to get up and attend to whatever’s going on, but for a final few moments, she lounges.</p><p>Finally, having ordered herself not to doze off again, Nile sits up, yawns, rubs her eyes, and looks around the room. Her increasingly disreputable habesha kemis and netela have been removed, and a clean shayla and salwar kameez left in their place. There is a large bowl of water for washing, and while there’s still sand from their dramatic Sphinx-crashing arrival in her nooks and crannies, at least her braids can be pinned up in a bun and covered with the shayla, which Nile knots around her shoulders. She pulls the kameez over her head, then tugs on the salwar and ties them around her waist. A pair of butter-soft leather boots have been supplied as well, and when she tries them on, she finds that they fit her feet precisely. It must be down to magic, and she wiggles her toes, savoring the sensation. Better not to get too used to this.</p><p>Now that she is rested, dressed, washed, and reconstituted, Nile is ready for breakfast, and she follows the enticing scent of bread down the stairs and into the main rooms of the house, down to the kitchen where they ate yesterday. At the moment, the only other person there is Yusuf, who looks more human than she’s ever seen him: messy-haired, barefoot, yawning, wearing a shawl draped over his bare shoulders and a pair of linen leggings. At her entrance, he jerks his head toward the hearth and says, mouth full, “Over there.”</p><p>Nile lifts the lid on the pot and removes a large and deliciously crispy murtabak – a pancake stuffed with eggs, spices, green onions, and minced mutton, folded over and fried. There’s also a handsomely sized clay jug of Arabian coffee, piping hot and black as pitch, and she pours it into her cup, carrying her meal to the table to sit across from Yusuf. She bows her head to say a prayer, then tears hungrily into the food. “This is delicious,” she says, mouth also full. “Your mother is a wonderful cook. Or was this the maidservants?”</p><p>“This was hers.” Yusuf is looking at her with a shrewd, considering expression. “I don’t think she quite trusts the servants to cook for us just yet.”</p><p>Nile wants to ask if a djinni housewife can just snap her fingers and be done with the cooking, which seems like a useful talent, but this tastes more real and substantial than the food Yusuf conjured for her in the cave, leaving deliciously greasy stains on her fingers. They eat in silence for several moments. Then Nile says, “Are your brothers back yet?”</p><p>“Not yet.” Yusuf finishes his first cup of coffee and – evidently unable to be arsed to get up and walk six feet – waves his hand. The coffee pitcher leaps up of its own accord and zooms over to pour a refill, as Nile observes in fascination. The magic she has seen thus far has been formidable, epic, dangerous, beautiful but not to be meddled with. This casual, offhand magic at breakfast, to do something so banal as procure more coffee, gives her an insight into how the jinn live their ordinary lives, how this entire house looks like any other family – for both good and bad – and gives her a sudden pang of missing her own. She’s gotten swept up in this adventure and hasn’t really thought about them, and they must be very worried.</p><p>“Did you send word to my cousin Alimayu?” Nile asks. “Back in Jerusalem, you promised that you would. Telling him that I was alive, I was fine. Right?”</p><p>“I had a message sent to your cousin, yes.” Yusuf’s shrewd expression sharpens still further, looking at her like she’s a puzzle he wants to solve. “Actually, tell me more about your family. Your father – Nesanet, wasn’t it? How far back do your roots go in Ethiopia? Any near connection to the empire of Aksum, or King Menelik of old?”</p><p>Nile blinks at him. She and Yusuf are getting along decently (considering, well, everything) but she doesn’t think that he’s decided to be friendly simply for the sake of it. He might be mixing up his human chronology. The Aksumites were the ancient royal line of Ethiopia, which died out a few centuries ago, and the Zagwe dynasty is currently in power. Unlike some others around here, she is not immortal, and thus cannot be close blood relations with the rulers of a vanished empire. “Not that I know of,” she says. “What’s this about?”</p><p>He shrugs. “I just thought we might know each other better.”</p><p>Nile eyes him narrowly, not fooled by this unconvincing protestation. As usual, the djinn is up to something, and it’s anyone’s guess as to whether he plans to tell her. There’s another pause as she returns to her breakfast, and Yusuf sips his coffee. He looks annoyed, distracted, preoccupied and brooding – maybe it’s just the rocky reentrance to his home and family, but since his brothers have agreed to help, however reluctantly, Nile doesn’t think it’s just that. There’s a pause. Then he says, “You know, you saved my life back in the cave. You could have just wished for <em>you </em>to be home, and that would have whisked you safely off to your village and left me there for the Night Riders. And the vampire,” he adds, striving to sound dismissive. “But never mind that. Why did you wish for <em>we?”</em></p><p>Nile is confused by the question. “Why didn’t I leave you in a cave for a bunch of demons to capture and torture? Are you really saying that you would prefer it if I had?”</p><p>“No!” Yusuf says quickly. “No, of course not. I’m – I’m grateful,” he adds, sounding as if it’s difficult for him to get the words out. “I’m just… I would not have expected it from a human master, and… I suppose this was not what you were expecting as a destination.”</p><p>“It’s fine, though,” Nile says. “At least, I think so. Your mother’s been very kind to me, and I suppose things were difficult with your family, but me personally, I’ve not had any reason to complain. I only have one more wish left, so I should be careful with that, but – ”</p><p>She catches Yusuf looking at her again, as if he just can’t understand her and why she has not already used it either to secure her exit, a large amount of gold for her trouble, or anything else. The truth is, it simply has never crossed Nile’s mind to do so, and the thought still does not appeal to her all that much. Why would she do that, what would she get from it? It <em>is</em> comforting to know that if all else fails, as Yusuf says, she could still use her last wish to eject herself safely from this situation and end up back home in Dembiya with her very confused family, who aren’t expecting her until the beginning of winter. But she… she’s willing to see where this goes, and she has never been the sort of person who wants to callously condemn other people to die for her. And Yusuf and Nicolò, djinn and vampire though they might be (and peculiar in all sorts of ways), are people. Yusuf’s family are people. Nile doesn’t understand everything, and at the rate Yusuf is going, she may never do so, but this is part of her somehow. She has to see it through. Bargain or no bargain, deal or no deal, wish or no wish. She just does.</p><p>She opens her mouth, about to say something else. But just then, making both of them jump, Nicolò himself enters the kitchen – he’s a vampire, he makes no sound, he simply appears from nowhere – and the entire dynamic of the room changes on a dirham. Yusuf snaps straight, tugging at the shawl around his shoulders as if he’s been caught in a compromising state, and Nicolò freezes, his gaze flickering at the djinn, then away as if he’s determined not to acknowledge him. He strides to the sideboard, looks for the coffee pitcher, and sees it sitting next to Yusuf. As he makes a move for it, Yusuf says waspishly, “You know that isn’t blood.”</p><p>“I’m aware.” There is a faint exasperation in Nicolò’s voice, for all that this appears to be their first interaction of the day, but perhaps residual irritation carries over from all of them. “I <em>can </em>usually drink human things, including wine. I wanted to try this, if that was all right with you?”</p><p>Yusuf eyes him balefully and doesn’t answer, as Nile regards this in considerable interest. Yes, indeed. She thought she was imagining it during their first eventful collision in Jerusalem, but having observed djinn and vampire at close range for a few days now, she doesn’t think so any more. They can barely take their eyes off each other even when there are others around, they argue like a pair of fishwives since they still have not figured out another way to talk to each other all the time, and she has seen the faces both of them make when looking at the other (and only when they’re sure the other isn’t looking at them). Do they have any idea how completely smitten they are? Can’t be sure, but she doesn’t think so. Men tend to be dense about emotions in the normal course of things, and Nicolò and Yusuf, despite their fangs and flames (or perhaps because of them) have struggled in that department even more than usual. She has considered accidentally locking them in a room together and seeing how that goes, but they might actually kill each other, and Nile can’t allow that, especially while this mess with the Ring of Solomon remains outstanding.</p><p>And yet. One of the reasons she’s felt safe with Yusuf is that despite the manifold external dangers they have faced on a sadly repeated basis, she’s never felt threatened by him. He has never looked at her in a remotely leering fashion, never made an off-color comment, never come too close or behaved in any kind of inappropriate or suggestive way. Having met his mother, Nile has no doubt that Maryam al-Katibi would flay her son alive if he took a single notion of being unchivalrous to a woman, but this makes sense. That and the mention of a beloved prince yesterday – which might explain his reticence on the subject of the Golden One back in the cave, if he was in love with the Golden One’s son. Yusuf simply isn’t interested in women, at least as intimate partners. Not that Nile wants him to be; she prefers their relationship to remain as platonic as it is, though the part where she is technically his master could stand to go. Yusuf <em>is, </em>however, deeply and desperately interested in Nicolò di Genova, Nicolò is undeniably just as interested back, and both of them have no clue. Nile wonders if she should take pity on them or say something, or just sit back and see how long it takes. Then again, they <em>are </em>immortals. She could be dead by the time they get their shit together.</p><p>Leaving aside the fascinating question of playing matchmaker to a pair of supernatural creatures, Nile clears her throat, making them jump in turn. Of course, they have already managed to forget that she is in the room. “So,” she says, a little too loudly. “Any news on when your brothers will be back, Yusuf?”</p><p>“No.” Yusuf shoots another under-the-eyelashes look at Nicolò, as if resenting the fact that he was not left in peace to proceed with their argument. What on earth is wrong now? This feels different from their usual barbed banter, their constant one-upmanship, their jostling to be sure that the other has noticed them and is annoyed about it. It feels more skewed, fragile, personal, edged with real hurt instead of sarcastic glibness, and Nile frowns. Before anyone else can interject, Yusuf goes on, “You are at liberty to amuse yourself in Cairo in the interim. There are many interesting places to visit, both in the jinn and human halves, though be careful if you go out. There are plenty of desperate people, and they can be dangerous.”</p><p>This speech seems primarily delivered to Nile, since she’s the only one who could be in danger from human pickpockets or scalawags, and Yusuf seems in an unaccountable hurry to finish his breakfast and leave. Meanwhile, Nicolò pours some coffee into a cup, sniffs at it dubiously, and takes a sip, then chokes. “What the hell is this stuff? It tastes like fresh tar.”</p><p>“It’s fine Arabian coffee, you uncultured Frankish swine.” Yusuf polishes off the rest of his second cup, as if for emphasis. “What do you need it for anyway? Not enough hunting on the hapless beggars of Cairo, or wherever you ran off to last night?”</p><p>Nicolò shoots Yusuf a look that is at once searing and oddly guilty, annoyed and vaguely heartbroken all at once. After a notably loud pause, he says, “I had a long night, yes.”</p><p>Yusuf opens his mouth to make some other smart remark, and Nile, seeing no good to come of allowing them to continue this particular bout of verbal warfare, quickly interrupts. “I don’t think coffee is traded in Europe, no,” she says. “But it can be drunk with cream and sugar if you don’t like it black. It’s especially good on cold winter mornings in the highlands.”</p><p>“Ethiopia, wasn’t it?” Nicolò looks at her as if equally desperate for a change of subject. “I have heard that the mountains are very beautiful. Are you from there?”</p><p>“My village is in the plains by Lake Tsana,” Nile says, noting that Yusuf is listening intently. “But sometimes we go up to the mountains to trade and visit.”</p><p>“Lake Tsana?” Nicolò cocks his head. “Is there not some legend that the Ark of the Covenant is hidden among the island monasteries there?”</p><p>“There is,” Nile says, surprised that he knows that, though it’s clear the vampire has been studying old books for some time. “The story was that it was brought back from Jerusalem many centuries ago by King Menelik, the founder of the Aksum dynasty.” She narrows her eyes at Yusuf again, wondering if he suspects her ancestors of personally stealing the Ark of the Covenant. “Nobody’s ever seen it, though.”</p><p>“Well, presumably you would not.” Nicolò takes a second sip of coffee, grimaces but seems to find the taste less objectionable this time, and regards her curiously. Both he and Yusuf seem determined to talk to her as if the other is not in the room. “So your people are Christian?”</p><p>“Yes, though there are some Jews of the old rites.” Just as she did with Yusuf, Nile doesn’t think that either of them have suddenly become interested in personal information for its own sake. “What’s this about? Do you want to know something or not?”</p><p>Vampires can’t really flush, but Nicolò’s pale cheeks take on a slightly deeper hue. “I suppose,” he says. “Actually, I was wondering if we truly did need to visit King Zawba’ah’s court. Could you not simply use your last wish to order him – ” he jerks his chin at Yusuf – “to find and retrieve the Ring? Whether it was in Petra or… elsewhere.”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t it be in Petra?” Nile realizes too late that she hasn’t actually confirmed with Nicolò that that’s where it is – she has a hard time imagining that Yusuf would have told him – and snaps her mouth shut, feeling played from all sides. She can’t deny that even if she doesn’t want to wish for endless chests of gold or phenomenal cosmic power or whatever else, the third and final wish doesn’t feel like something that should be wasted, or spent without thinking very carefully about it. If nothing else, she does want to use it to get out of here, and she looks at Yusuf. “The problem was never about finding the Ring, wasn’t it? It was about being able to take it out of hiding without every magical creature in the world swooping down on us again. And knowing what to do once we had it. You don’t have enough power to deal with that.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Yusuf’s eyes are very sharp on Nicolò. “Besides, we’ve already sent my brothers off to arrange the visit, it’s too late to call them back and announce we’ve suddenly changed our mind. King Zawba’ah will have heard of this and know that his descendants have something to do with it, we’re not getting off the hook either way. But if you do not believe in this course of action, or wish to hazard your person in a djinn city, you are welcome to stay behind.”</p><p>There’s another fraught pause. Then Nicolò says, “No.”</p><p>Nile starts to scoff her breakfast at top speed, feeling a sore need to get out of this room and leaving them to work out whatever they need to work out (in whatever form that takes). Having confirmed that she is at leave to explore the city, but should take an attendant with her, she ends up with Sameer, the same maidservant who witnessed the unfortunate family reunion yesterday. The other woman doesn’t look much older than her, and she doesn’t have the same pointed ears and unearthly glow of the full-blooded jinn that Nile has met, including Yusuf and his family. But as they’re strolling down the promenade into the bazaar, Sameer causes a particularly annoying merchant to go blank-faced and amble off with a twitch of her finger. Observing it, Nile says, “Do you – I’m sorry, do you have magic too?”</p><p>“Yes.” Sameer gives her a strange look. She’s probably not used to her masters asking personal questions, and Nile feels again that unwanted weight of command, of having Yusuf’s will still magically bound to her own, and now – even borrowed – Sameer’s. After a pause, having evidently decided that Nile is a clueless newcomer and didn’t mean any offense by it, the maid says, “I’m a half-blood. My father is a djinn and my mother is a human. There are many such children as us. There is a monster known as a <em>nasnas, </em>the literal half of a man, with one arm, one leg, one half of its chest and head, split down the middle, that hops around and menaces the whole people – if a <em>nasnas </em>touches them, they will be flayed of their flesh and dead in an instant. The purebloods call us that often. As if it was not their own sin in making us.”</p><p>At that, Sameer seems to think she might have said too much, and clamps her mouth shut, as Nile looks at her uncertainly. She has gleaned that the jinn also resemble humans in the unfortunate aspect of having their own ingrained prejudices and social problems; this may be a lovely magical city (as they’re still in the djinni half of Cairo), but magic has not smoothed away all the deeper issues. As Nile pauses to look at some jewelry and then decides that there’s no way she is acquiring another ring under any circumstances, Sameer says, “I should not have – I do not wish you to think ill of the al-Kaysani family. They treat me very well, better than many of my kind can expect. Girls often make good servants, and I am fortunate not to be a bed slave. The boys are used as soldiers. Sometimes they are castrated like Greek eunuchs, since we are only supposed to marry humans and not have children with purebloods, but – ”</p><p>“What?” Nile looks up from the goods in horror, murmurs a thanks to the merchant, and moves on. As they stroll through the plaza, magic bursting everywhere – in glittering magical birds with gem-colored plumages, in rare flowers blooming seductive perfumes, in all kinds of jewelry and trinkets gleaming with power, in scriveners calling to her to let them write a love spell in verse for the pretty lady, in the smoke of burning incense that forms into prowling lions and tigers, in the street performer dancing atop ten-foot tall columns of violet flame – Nile turns to Sameer and repeats, “I’m sorry, they do <em>what </em>to you?”</p><p>The maid looks hesitant, and Nile reminds herself not to wade in here and start an uprising among the underclass. Finally Sameer says, “It is not fair, but it is how things have always been. The male jinn have a great weakness for human women, though it is death for a human man to lie with a jinn woman. We are the inevitable result. Our powers can be unpredictable, and they fear that we might take revenge for the conditions in which they keep us, or try to challenge their superiority in magic, in blood, in society. So they do their best to ensure that that never happens by crushing us beforehand.”</p><p>Nile isn’t sure what’s more upsetting: Sameer’s actual words, or the matter-of-fact, resigned tone in which she delivers them. She doesn’t sound angry or fired up about the hypocrisy. She just sounds tired. The two young women stare at each other. Then Nile says, “But it’s not <em>right.”</em></p><p>“You are new to this world, Sayyida Nile.” Sameer glances around, in case someone has overheard her saying all this. “But I am happy, truly. Sayyida Maryam does not agree with it either, and keeps me as a servant so that those less scrupulous would not swoop in and do so under much worse terms. It is said some djinni mistresses are so jealous of their human slave girls that they order them branded or burned, anything to make them less beautiful, so their husbands and sons will not be tempted to transgression. That, or – ”</p><p>Evidently realizing that this is not doing anything for Nile’s sense of burgeoning injustice, Sameer stops talking again, and they browse in silence for some time. Nile dawdles at a beautiful booksellers’ stand, leafing through a copy of the famous <em>Book of Ingenious Devices </em>and the <em>Book on the Measurement of Plane and Spherical Figures </em>by the Banu Musa brothers from the Baghdadi House of Wisdom, some works by the Samanid polymath Ibn Sina including on Aristotle’s <em>Metaphysics</em> (rather relatably, he read it forty times and still didn’t get it until the happy discovery of an annotated commentary edition), some by the famous Persian poet, astronomer, and mathematician Omar Khayyam, some by other human scholars, and some by names Nile has never heard of who must be jinn, writing obscure treatises on dense and theoretical academic magic. She’s tempted to just take them all, but it would cost a fortune and she should avoid lumbering them with any new problems. (Apparently while the jinn may scorn the mixing of their magical blood with humans, they’re more than happy to take all the humans’ knowledge.) When Sameer has finally tugged Nile away from the stand, she promises to buy her a sweet to make up for it, and purchases two fat slices of <em>lauzinaj mugharraq. </em>This is a rare delicacy: made of almonds, sugar paste, honey, crushed pistachios, and rosewater, wrapped in six layers of translucently fine pastry, it melts in Nile’s mouth like a dream. She closes her eyes, in heaven, until she thinks of something, and her eyes pop open in alarm. “I should pay you back for this.”</p><p>“Sayyida Maryam gives me plenty of money,” Sameer says. “It is not necessary. But I am glad you like it. There once was a qadi who told his students that the only reason to study law was to become rich enough to eat pistachio lauzinaj for dessert every night.”</p><p>“I can’t blame him.” Nile licks her fingers. Even if Sameer hasn’t said so aloud, this is clearly also to a bribe, an implicit reward for keeping silent about everything that Sameer has said today about half-bloods. Nile wonders if she should stop pushing about something that very much is not her concern, but she can’t help herself. “I’m glad that Maryam is so good to you, truly. But you shouldn’t have to rely on her personal kindness to keep safe, to live as a servant in her house because it’s better than being a bed slave to some monster who would disfigure your face. And all the other half-bloods who don’t have your luck, who are forced into servitude or castrated or used as dumb muscle – what happens to them? Who looks after them?”</p><p>She becomes aware that her voice is rising, and tries to keep it down. Nile hasn’t forgotten, even amid all this splendor, that she is also a human, without any powers or jinn lineage at all, and the unmistakable presence of al-Kaysani magic on her is the only reason the two young women have been left alone as they shop and enjoy themselves. There were a few rambunctious packs of young djinni men who she was briefly worried about, who then sensed something, remembered an urgent engagement elsewhere, and sped off without another word. It’s clear that nobody will mess with a human marked with the protection of King Zawba’ah’s line, but this is likewise conditional and individual to Nile. It would not extend to anyone else in her position. As she finds her feet in the magical world, she’s seeing the dark side and not just the beauty. The Night Riders and other obvious villains aren’t the only evil here. It never works like that.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Nile says, shame-faced, when Sameer doesn’t answer. “I’m sure you know all this already, and you don’t need me to come here and lecture you like you don’t. Especially when there’s nothing you can do. But what if…” She hesitates. “What if I could?”</p><p>Sameer eyes her warily, understandably unwilling to be drawn into any grand idealistic plans or secret plotting of treason. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Nile puts the last bite of lauzinaj in her mouth and chews it slowly, trying to buy herself time to think. She doesn’t want to suggest that she use her last wish to order Yusuf to magically explode the entire unjust social hierarchy of his world, but if this <em>is </em>the Ring of Solomon – and it seems fairly obvious that it is – then is Nile supposed to just give it up without using it again at <em>all? </em>For whatever reason, Diyab gave it to her. Said that it belonged to her. Called her <em>Princess, </em>even, a fact that recalls itself to her with sudden and urgent clarity. <em>One of Mother Makeda’s children thinking that magic isn’t real? Imagine.</em> Yusuf asking if her family had any connection to King Menelik. Nicolò asking about the Ark of the Covenant and whether it was hidden in Nile’s hometown. Does this mean that they think <em>she </em>–</p><p>Nile can’t see what this might be leading to, but she can sense its inchoate edges, a growing and unsettling certainty that all of this may be far more than she ever imagined – including herself. It is increasingly clear to her that Yusuf has been planning all along to separate her from the Ring, even if it is true that they would be a target if they had it, because he fears her gaining more mastery with it. But what good is the most powerful magical object in the world if you can’t do anything except meekly consent for it to be destroyed or never seen again? Nile doesn’t want to use it to lay the land to waste, to bind the jinn with a new curse, to set herself up in Solomon’s place, and proclaim herself King (or Queen) of the Holy Land all over again. They’ve already had enough of that kind of trouble with the Frankish crusaders. But if she <em>did </em>have the Ring, and she could use it to fix what <em>was </em>wrong…</p><p><em>I need to get it back, </em>Nile thinks, with an ice-cold clarity that takes her aback. There’s no room for debate – and if Yusuf isn’t going to help her outside what he’s ordered to do by the wish, no need to inform him. She doesn’t know what game he or Nicolò are playing, but she needs to be sure that she has one of her own. When they go to King Zawba’ah’s court in the City of Iron, she will need to have her wits about her, and she will need to stay cool, and she will need to come up with a plan that ends with the Ring of Solomon in her possession – hers alone. Yusuf’s question from breakfast echoes in her mind. <em>Why did you wish for </em>we?</p><p>Because she had to. Because she does not want any of them hurt. Nile is a kindhearted person. She does not have any aims of seizing the Ring for her own power, but simply to help the half-bloods and humans that the jinn have unfairly repressed, the reason God saw fit to punish them through Solomon in the first place. Just because that takes another form now does not mean it is any more excusable. <em>When I’m done with it, I’ll put it aside, </em>she reminds herself.<em> I’m not going to get addicted. I’ll be careful. </em>Doubtless they all say that. But she <em>will.</em></p><p>She swallows the last sweet bite of lauzinaj, and looks at Sameer, who has been watching her. “I’m all right now,” she says. “Let’s go back. I’m ready.”</p><p>“Yes, Sayyida Nile,” the maidservant murmurs, and gets to her feet. And so, they leave the bazaar, return to the al-Kaysani house late that afternoon and the news that Muhammad and Ismail will be escorting them to the City of Iron tomorrow, and Nile’s heart turns a strange cold flip in her chest. This is it, then. This is time. It must be.</p><p><em>I’m ready, </em>she tells herself, lying in Noor’s bed that night. <em>I am ready.</em></p><p>(She can only pray that she is.)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Yusuf barely sleeps. The prospect of finally meeting his great-grandfather is bad enough – King Zawba’ah has literally thousands of descendants, Yusuf may not be special, but that still doesn’t mean he can embarrass him – but he has become convinced, over the course of a tense dinner, that Nicolò and Nile are plotting against him. Whether separately or in concert does not matter, and Yusuf has tried to tell himself that he’s just being more paranoid than usual. But wherever Nicolò was last night, Yusuf doesn’t actually think that it was hunting in the human quarters of Cairo, despite his barbs at breakfast this morning. Or at least not that alone. Nicolò doesn’t have the look of a freshly fed vampire; he seems sharper and hungrier than ever. As for Nile, it’s harder to read her, but she was looking at the servants all evening, as if weighing them up. Did she see something on her excursion today? Meet someone? Try something?</p><p>Yusuf tosses and turns restlessly on his cushions, unable to get comfortable. He is aware that bountiful depths of trust do not exist between the three of them – <em>the djinn, the vampire, and the human girl, </em>it sounds like some sort of riddle or Aesop’s fable about the inevitable downfall of working with your enemies, the farmer and the viper. He should not assume that they are entering the dangerous crucible of the City of Iron with their motives or their purposes aligned. But if Yusuf can’t rely on them even for shared interests, is their makeshift team – cobbled together almost entirely by Nile’s two inopportune wishes, binding him to her and then Nicolò to them – worth anything? Is Yusuf just doing himself harm by taking them with him? It’s bitterly amusing that they are going to the City of <em>Iron, </em>when everything is made of glass.</p><p>He drops under and sleeps for a few hours, his dreams murky and unsettling, and wakes before dawn, rolling out of bed to perform fajr on the floor. He usually gets more devout, at least about prayer, when he’s home; now that there are no longer any muezzins in Jerusalem, and the adhan has not been sounded there for five years, it can be more difficult to remember. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to implore for all the help he can get. Even when he has finished the prayer, he remains prostrated. Mashallah, he thinks. Don’t let me die.</p><p>With that, he rocks back on his heels, blows out a breath, and gets to his feet. The servants have laid out his formal clothes, all in the rich green that is the color of the Banu Zawba’ah. There is a splendid tunic in deep emerald silk, embroidered with climbing golden vines, a turban in a lighter spring-leaf shade, and a half-cloak pinned with an iron brooch that shines like silver. There is also a finely worked iron chain studded with jet and onyx and emerald, to be worn draped across the shoulders; no other djinn would want so much of the metal on their person, and it is a proud indication of the Banu Zawba’ah resistance to a substance that is otherwise feared. There are dark leggings and leather boots, a fringed sash, a Toledo-steel saif and dagger in felted scabbards, rings with more emeralds the size of thumbnails, and an iron circlet for Yusuf’s head in recognition of his princely status. He lifts it and sets it on his brow, like an upstart caliph crowning himself in the dust of an overthrown dynasty. Even for him, the touch of iron directly on his skin is stinging and sharp, a reminder not to take this lightly. He studies the finished effect in the looking glass. He flatters himself that it is not entirely unpleasant.</p><p>Having applied dark kohl to his eyes, an old Egyptian tradition still favored among the humans for dulling the bright light of the desert, Yusuf gives his cloak a final flourish and descends the stairs. He doesn’t have much appetite, but his mother is awake and refuses to let him go off without some coffee, which turns into breakfast anyway. Yusuf tries not to get crumbs on his finery, but fails, and is just engaged in surreptitiously magicking them off when the door opens, he inhales the last bite of his pastry whole, and descends into a coughing fit.</p><p>Whatever he was expecting, wherever his snarled feelings on Nicolò di Genova were trying to settle, this – well, the sight of him dressed as a prince of the Banu Zawba’ah, in regalia identical to Yusuf’s own but without the iron circlet, almost stops Yusuf’s heart on the spot. He is still not breathing for reasons only incidental to choking on air (and crumbs). Why, <em>why </em>does Nicolò need to look like that when Yusuf needs to focus on the clandestine and nefarious vampiric things he’s probably doing? The long tunic clings to his lean torso like a glove, the sash tied with an elegant knot and flip, the rings shine on his fingers like a king’s signet, and he has even gone the extra mile and embraced the kohl on his eyes. Vampires are normally quite attractive; it’s an effect of the metamorphosis and functions useful for drawing dazzled human prey to them, and Nicolò was clearly plenty handsome even before that. But the combined effect –</p><p>Yusuf keeps his watering eyes on the table, not daring to look up. Nicolò sweeps by him, takes a cup of coffee from Maryam either to be a gracious guest or just to pose with it and give Yusuf an uninterrupted view, and both of them concentrate as hard as possible on not saying a word until Nile arrives. She also looks pretty; the <em>hammam </em>was filled with water rather than flame last night so she and Nicolò could take turns bathing, and her hair has been brushed, oiled, and braided, her glittering green dress and chador borrowed from Noor’s old things. Golden bangles, necklaces, and earrings set with turquoise, jade, and emerald gleam dramatically against her dark skin, and she resembles a proper African princess, not a humble village girl. But this, of course, does not cause a total loss of function in Yusuf the way Nicolò did. He gets up and bows to her in a slightly pointed fashion. “Good morning.”</p><p>“Good morning.” Nile glances around at all of them in their splendid clothes, nervous but trying to hide it. “So how do we get to – to the city? Is there a whirlwind we have to ride, or…?”</p><p>This is not that far off, since Zawba’ah is known as the Cyclone due to his fondness for such things. Yusuf wonders how far they will have to travel, if they do. Zawba’ah is unlikely to move the City of Iron from wherever it is currently lodged, as the point is to make them come to him, and a long journey would impress on them the king’s power and wonder and withdrawal from petty interests. “I’m not sure,” he says, looking at his mother for help. “I assume Muhammad and Ismail will be here soon and escort us as they planned?”</p><p>“Yes.” Maryam looks nervous herself, but is also doing her best to conceal it. She hurries to fetch another tray of food and coffee for Nile, and the kitchen is mostly silent as the human girl eats, taking extra care not to spill. Then, startling them, Maryam says, “Be careful. All of you.”</p><p>“We’ll be fine, Mama.” <em>We, </em>Yusuf thinks, is once more an open question, but no need to say that. “Muhammad and Ismail may be oafs, but they are also favored grandsons. As long as you put the fear of Allah into them, they should do their part.”</p><p>“It’s not just that.” Maryam hesitates. “My sweet one, even for all that you know, you are very young. You have never been in any place like this. Your great-grandfather was born eons before Sulaiman’s curse and is a djinn in the truest sense, like you and your brothers have never known, living in the mostly human-like society we have now. Zawba’ah is an old and very proud spirit, and has lived for thousands of years at the very center of a world that is completely obedient to him. If you put a foot wrong, if you offend him in any way, if he makes a decision that cannot be taken back – there is <em>nothing </em>any of you can do to stop it, and it will make it worse if you fight. Why do you think that I was always so careful about keeping you away from that world? Even if I fought with your father about it, I would not see my sons made that way from their beginning. No king’s crown or princely lineage is worth forgetting the price that is paid for it.”</p><p>Yusuf opens his mouth, then stops. He was about to say something that could come out petulant; he does not want his mother chiding him and acting like he is an ignorant child in need of hand-holding, especially in front of Nicolò. But the deadly seriousness in her voice, her deeply worried frown, makes it clear that she has agreed to this visit vastly against her own better judgment, and that speaks volumes about how dangerous she truly considers the Ring of Sulaiman to be, if giving up her sons (and her guests) to the maw of the Cyclone is preferable. There’s a strained pause. Then Yusuf says, “We’ll be careful, Mama. I promise we will.”</p><p>“I do not know if <em>careful</em> will be enough.” Maryam comes over and anxiously fusses with Yusuf’s tunic. “And you, for one, have a tendency to be a terrible hothead and speak exactly what is on your mind. You come by that honestly, but you cannot do that here. Not with Zawba’ah or any of his gatekeepers. Not even your brothers. Do you hear me? Before them, and while any eyes are on you, you must be their devoted servant.”</p><p>Yusuf is dismayed to hear that this visit, already stressful enough, won’t even have the option of sassing Muhammad and Ismail to blow off steam, but it’s crucially important that they present a united front. “I will,” he says. “As long as you told them the same thing.”</p><p>“Yes,” Maryam says. Glancing at Nicolò and Nile, she adds, “I cannot command you to obey in the same fashion, but I strongly urge you to be careful. This is a dangerous place for my sons, and they are princes of the Banu Zawba’ah. For a vampire and a human to enter – it has not been done for centuries, if at all. Both of you may have your own ideas about what to do. But for your own safety, stay close to Yusuf, and let him speak for you. Be twice as respectful as you think is warranted. You may mock it to yourself all you wish, but to outward eyes, there must be no question that you are not a threat.”</p><p>Nicolò and Nile look surprised, and Yusuf shoots a grateful glance at his mother, wondering if this is a veiled way of informing them not to get any big ideas about undercutting him – whether for show or otherwise. But they both nod and thank her graciously for the hospitality she has shown them over the last few days, and for permitting them into her family’s home. Nile finishes her breakfast, and they hear voices outside in the courtyard. Maryam beckons to them. “Come. Muhammad and Ismail are here.”</p><p>Yusuf, Nicolò, and Nile trail after her into the cool blue predawn, the torches in the courtyard burning with golden daevic fire and casting flickering shadows around the feet of his elder brothers, who are likewise dressed in splendid green-and-iron and standing in front of the largest Turkish carpet Yusuf has ever seen in his life. It could almost cover the entire prayer area of the neighborhood mosque, and Muhammad gestures Nicolò and Nile toward it when they look confused. “Yusuf, have your friends never traveled by flying carpet before?”</p><p>“I’m guessing not,” Yusuf says. “Try not to spill them off over the Sahara or do any somersaults?”</p><p>Muhammad glares at him, which does not feel like a harbinger of tranquil fraternal relations, but rolls his eyes and promises that they are, from this point on, as much his own honored guests as Yusuf’s. No somersaults. Yusuf remembers a few eventful occasions as boys, when he and Musa stole the enchanted carpets from the house and raced them through the bazaar, ending in the merchants’ guild threatening to ban them for life if they did it again. Knocking over stands and breaking goods – how fun it was, how feckless, the way children never worry about the damage they cause, how that is for joyless adults to do. Once again he sees his brother’s face before him, screaming. <em>We’ll find you, Musa. We’ll free you. I swear.</em></p><p>Once everyone is on board, and Maryam has issued a few more stern provisos to her elder sons, Muhammad moves to the front of the carpet, makes an imperious gesture, and they lift off and rise into the air at considerable speed. Nile gasps, and even Nicolò doesn’t look as sure of himself as usual. But he manages the world-weary face, where traveling by flying carpet is all in a day’s work and does nothing to impress him. Then they soar above the rooftops of Cairo, aim at the blue-pink horizon where the planet Venus twinkles low in the sky, and Muhammad really kicks it into gear. They shoot off like an arrow, and Nicolò – who has never flown before in any shape or form – reaches out and seizes hold of Yusuf’s hand.</p><p>Yusuf jerks, isn’t sure whether to inform Nicolò that the enchantments on the carpet mean it’s quite safe as long as you don’t get too close to the edge, or just say nothing and enjoy the vampire being terrified. They are seated at the rear of the carpet anyway – Muhammad and Ismail are at the front, Nile in the middle – and nobody has noticed. Yusuf likewise affects (poorly, but never mind) that he hasn’t, until they whiz through a bank of low-lying cloud and he glances down at where Nicolò’s fingers are still locked over his. “Afraid of heights, vampire?”</p><p>“I’m not afraid of <em>heights,</em>” Nicolò says through clenched teeth. “I <em>am </em>slightly alarmed that this rug might be trying to kill me.”</p><p>“Relax, you couldn’t die even if you did fall off.” Yusuf flexes his fingers, loosening the steel-crushing grip a little, but finds that he isn’t actually terribly desperate for Nicolò to let go. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”</p><p>Nicolò starts to say something, stops, flicks an eye at their fingers, and glances up as if to decide why Yusuf hasn’t ripped away in disgust yet. Then, as if both of them have yet again decided to pretend that their arms exist in an alternate dimension, and they have noticed nothing, he glances deliberately at the landscape whooshing past below. “This is… interesting, yes.”</p><p>“Come on, it’s your first time flying and all you can say is it’s <em>interesting?” </em>Yusuf leans in, deliberately so. “Didn’t the vampire ever turn into a bat and take a flutter?”</p><p>“I would like to inform the djinn,” Nicolò shoots back, “that we cannot turn into bats.”</p><p>“Boring.” Yusuf snuggles (there is no other word for it) still closer. If the fanged menace is in fact plotting against him, he’s entitled to it, and he is not above enjoying the tension that he feels in the hard muscles of Nicolò’s shoulder. “We must expand your experiences.”</p><p>“Oh?” Nicolò flicks those beautiful grey eyes at him, their drama brought out by the dark lines of kohl, and Yusuf forgets the words in all the languages he knows. “What did you have in mind?”</p><p>Their banter is sharply edged with their anger from the last few nights, their fraught acquaintance in general, and a buzzing, undeniable current of – well, let’s just say that Yusuf has been unable to refrain from picturing in loving detail how he would tear every single one of those fine clothes off Nicolò with his teeth, even if he is not the vampire here. Their faces are once more very close, their hands locked together, as the world continues to rush away beneath them, turning golden, as if they are Apollo of old Olympus stepping into his fiery chariot. In fact, they are so completely absorbed in (hate! <em>Hate!</em>) flirting with each other that it takes Muhammad several increasingly exasperated shouts to get their attention. “Ya! Lovebirds! Do you wish to get to the City of Iron sometime this century? Then look out!”</p><p>Deeply startled, Yusuf and Nicolò spring apart, shake their hands loose in a way that helpfully emphasizes for all the other occupants of the carpet that they very much were holding them, and look around hastily. Up on the horizon ahead of them, still distant but coming closer at speed, is a towering column of dust that stretches almost ten miles into the sky. Yusuf can feel the biting wind, hear the unnatural howl that heralds the presence of the jinn, and Muhammad slows up sharply as they approach, so as not to get caught up and dashed down, down, down. They nudge in alongside the endless wall of wind, the carpet rocking in the gale, tassels flapping like frantic hands. Nicolò decides that this is a fine reason to seize hold of Yusuf again, and Nile grabs Ismail’s sleeve; it looks as if only a hurricane would be sufficient to knock <em>him </em>off. Muhammad sizes up the prospect a moment longer. Then he yells, <em>“Hang on!,” </em>and goes in.</p><p>A roaring wave of sound engulfs them: a spinning, screaming maelstrom of noise and power that forces their eyes shut. It whirls around an ominously silent abyss, a formless center that does not hold, as Yusuf senses them being dragged closer and closer and grabs harder onto Nicolò. They plunge almost in free fall, tumbling through endless empty space, and he can hear Nile trying to scream, but the air has been driven out of her lungs too comprehensively. Yusuf and Nicolò are clutching both hands, Nicolò almost in Yusuf’s lap, their faces pressed together so that he can feel the coolness of the vampire’s flesh, the slow deep pulse of his heart. Yusuf’s eyes are still closed, so he cannot see, but it feels like it is only the two of them as the stars fall and the world ends, that they have lived an endless and unimaginable span of time and seen everything else crumble, and it is only them, in the last moment in all eternity before eternity itself is gone.</p><p>At last, the carpet comes to a crashing, thrashing halt – still aloft, none of them have any idea of where the ground is, but at least they have not hit it – as Muhammad wrestles it back under control. They level out, sprawled flat and gasping, as Yusuf pries his eyes open a crack and sees Nile clutching onto the carpet with both hands and praying as hard as she can. They are swallowed in an endless mist, a fog that towers like the columns of an almighty celestial temple. A faint golden light shines down from above, marking a gap in the clouds, and Muhammad aims for it. Yusuf and Nicolò remain clutching each other (even Yusuf has to admit that was more dramatic than he was expecting) as they soar toward the opening, pass through, and all at once, they are in a whole new world.</p><p>The hot desert of Egypt and the crowded rooftops of Cairo are gone. Instead, they are flying over what appears very near to Paradise, some lost Shambhala. Huge green mountains rise into a crystalline blue sky, spray rises from thundering waterfalls that spill over cliffs, azure waves crash on white-sand beaches, and up ahead, atop the broad shoulders of the tallest mountain that rises far above the heaving jungle, sits an enormous walled city. Seven levels rise to the enormous palace at the top; the streets rise in concentric circles, and the buildings gleam in glass and gold and iron. Minarets, ziggurats, chaityas, chhatris, towers, temples, iwans, domes, and spires all compete for space, drawn from an endless mishmash of human styles; the jinn are cultural magpies, traveling around the world and copying whichever architectural innovations they favor, so the city is built according to no one single layout or fashion or period in time. Its massive walls rise a hundred feet high, and its gates and crenels gleam with iron, a warning to any enterprising rival who would think of straying where he did not belong. Even Yusuf, who was born a djinn and has lived his life in magical cities, has never seen anything like it.</p><p>“Like the view?” Muhammad shouts, grinning proudly, and Yusuf has to admit, it is utterly spectacular. They soar over ravines too deep and dark and choked with trees to see the bottom, up toward the massive mountaintop city that looks still and silent as a dream, but begins to echo with noise and industry and – as they draw closer – shouts of challenge. Muhammad brings the carpet down smartly before they can cross the walls. “We would be torn to shreds if we tried,” he notes cheerily. “Thousands of bloody ones. There’s a curse.”</p><p>“Good to know,” Nicolò manages, the first thing he has said aloud since their terrifying journey through the whirlwind. The city is growing larger and larger; the walls are wide enough for three teams of chariot racers to ride abreast, and the steep streets fork out in an endless array of paths. Flowers and trees and Babylonian hanging gardens crowd among the buildings. The palace sits at the very top, up in thin air, beautiful and unconquerable. That must, Yusuf thinks, be his great-grandfather’s seat, the ancestral hall of his family and his tribe. They are here.</p><p>Muhammad steers the carpet expertly down to the nearest of the city gates, they land for inspection, and Nicolò and Nile desperately try not to cringe from the wildfire strength of the stares they are getting from every side. From this vantage point, they can see down into the main plaza below, a huge and splendid magical bazaar to put any pale impostors to shame, and the customers down <em>there </em>are starting to gather and stare too. Well, if they wanted to make sure that every single djinn in the City of Iron noticed them, flying in on a huge carpet with a vampire and a human could <em>possibly </em>be outranked, but it’s hard to see how. One of the guards takes an unfriendly step toward Nicolò, and both he and Yusuf tense, but Ismail throws out a massive arm. “That’s my brother and his friend,” he announces. “We’ll have no discourtesy.”</p><p>The djinn guard isn’t sure what to think about that, as he and Muhammad resume arguing in a peculiar dialect of Daevic that even Yusuf struggles to follow; it’s probably a language specific to the city that can’t be automatically understood by strange djinn, which would be a strategic advantage in case of an attack. That can never be ruled out, even on an awe-inspiring magical citadel like this, only populated by jinn and very far away from the human world. The Seven Kings are constantly ambitious, restless, and eager to increase their prestige at their rivals’ expense, and the walls and the gatehouse bear the scars of ancient bombardments. How ancient, Yusuf wonders? Before Sulaiman, or after?</p><p>He keeps a vigilant eye on Nicolò and Nile, since even if he isn’t entirely sure that he trusts them, none of these shifty city jinn get to lay a finger on them. Finally, Muhammad says something that makes the captain of the guard frown, look at their green cloth and iron jewelry, and straighten up rather abruptly. “Prince Muhammad,” he says, speaking more standard Daevic. “Prince Ismail. The grandsons of Emir Hasan, yes? And these are…?”</p><p>“Our brother, Prince Yusuf,” Muhammad says, sounding exasperated, “and his guests. I have said several times now that we are expected in King Zawba’ah’s court. Perhaps we may be allowed to continue there without any further questioning of our purpose?”</p><p>Yusuf has to admit, his brother is excellent at being haughty and imperious when the occasion calls for it, and after another episode of discussion between the guards, they are cleared to enter the city. As princes of the Banu Zawba’ah, they are permitted to fly the carpet up to the palace, since it would be beneath their dignity to arrive on foot, but as they are getting back on, one of the guards grabs Nicolò’s arm. “This one should be careful.”</p><p>“I beg your pardon,” Muhammad says. “Are you laying hands on my brother’s lover?”</p><p>It’s hard to say who looks more shocked by this. Yusuf hastily extinguishes his fingers, which have sparked to crackling life (he is not going to start off this visit by slinging fireballs at poorly informed guards, he is <em>not</em>), and he and Nicolò manage to keep their features completely ordinary as they re-board the carpet and sit down six feet apart. As the carpet takes off again and begins the ascent up to the palace, Yusuf is aware that Nile, for her part, does <em>not </em>seem shocked. In fact, she is regarding them with a slightly too-knowing expression, which Yusuf feels a certain urge to correct her from later. Ya Allah, does <em>everyone </em>know?</p><p>The streets grow steeper as they climb; the markets and public spaces and poorer houses are all in the lower levels of the city, and the villas and gardens get more and more opulent the higher they get and the closer they approach the palace. It is a huge, sprawling complex of towers and cloisters and courtyards, minarets and gardens and maidans, to the point where the eye, already struggling to comprehend the scale and beauty of the city, can barely take it in. They land in front of the massive green and silver iwan that surrounds the main palace gate, crowned by intricate muqarnas vaulting, and are shown in by bowing guards. Yusuf gives them a look, just in case anyone feels like saying something, but they don’t glance up.</p><p>Inside, they enter into the palace’s endless paradise garden, done in the style the Persians call <em>chahar bagh, </em>described in the Holy Qur’an as the place that is the ultimate reward of the faithful. It is laid out in four quarters with a splendid fountain and reflecting pool at the center, and subtle scents float through the air; it is designed to dazzle all the senses at once. Olive, fig, date, pomegranate, orange, apricot, and lemon trees line the immaculately horticultured walkways, leading off into shady groves where lovers might steal away at night, and marble benches are set at intervals so that a walker may sit and contemplate the majesty around him. Fine painted tiles cover the smaller fountains, and the high garden walls are also marble. Nile is trying not to stare too unduly, but she’s losing that battle. Even Yusuf can’t resist gaping.</p><p>They climb up the broad stairs on the far side, pass through a set of high gates, and enter the palace proper. The hall is huge and open, footsteps echo, and the roof is so far above that they can only barely make out its intricate murals. Magical flames burn in open bronze salvers, the floor is black-and-white-checked marble seamed in gold, the columns look like the Parthenon (and might <em>be </em>from the Parthenon, given the djinni tendency for acquisitiveness) and a servant comes hastening up with cups of golden nectar. They are passed from the custody of the gate guards to one of the chamberlains, who leads them from the massive hall into a smaller solarium, just as splendid, painted blue with a golden star-map of the heavens on the ceiling. He introduces himself as Abdallah ibn Ja’far al-Husayn, promises them that he is devotedly at their service, and their great-grandfather will receive them at his pleasure.</p><p>Once he is finally gone, with the servants supplying more nectar and cups of fresh fruit and ice sherbet and other delicacies to keep them well fed while they wait, Yusuf lets out a breath. “So this is the City of Iron,” he says, stating the obvious. “Was it like this when you were here to visit Great-Grandfather the other time?”</p><p>“No,” Muhammad says. “It wasn’t on this mountain, at least. It was somewhere in the high cold grasslands. And much less splendid. This has been certainly designed to impress.”</p><p>Nile looks startled. “Wait, it’s not – it’s not real?”</p><p>“It’s real,” Muhammad answers, with surprising patience for a human’s silly questions. “It’s just – more real in some places than others. Not everything you see is actually there, and things that you thought you knew can change or disappear.” He shrugs. “It’s the way of our people.”</p><p>Yusuf can feel Nicolò looking at him, and struggles not to glance back. <em>Not everything you see is actually there. </em>Ravishing and seductive as the City of Iron might be, the point is that parts of it are just a beautiful, sugar-spun lie, and you never know which ones. You could reach out for some particularly exquisite thing and see it crumble to dust in your hands. If Yusuf is wise, he will take the metaphor more smartly to heart and apply it in other areas of his life. But then, he thinks, half-despairing. Whoever said he was?</p><p>Some time passes. It is difficult to reckon how much – an hour, perhaps two, perhaps more. Abdallah ibn Ja’far pops up again, smiling and deferential, to ensure that they are still supplied with food and drink, and to invite them to admire the palace’s exquisite collection of art and statuary in a neighboring hall. This outclasses any human gallery in existence, but even as his companions are deeply absorbed, Yusuf – doubtless in a scandalous breach of royal protocol – grabs the chamberlain by the arm. “We want to see our great-grandfather,” he says. “What’s taking so long?”</p><p>The chamberlain looks startled. “Prince Yusuf, you must be assured – the cares of state can be laborious, His Majesty is – ”</p><p>“He was told to expect us, I presume?” Yusuf tightens his grip. He’s breaking every rule his mother set at once – don’t be a hothead, don’t speak out of turn, don’t upstage your brothers, wait meekly at the king’s pleasure and don’t insult him – but he’s feeling a little reckless, and he doesn’t care. “Yet neither he or the guards at the gate seem to know that we were coming? Why don’t you investigate, Abdallah ibn Ja’far? That would be to <em>our </em>pleasure.”</p><p>The chamberlain opens his mouth indignantly, but something about the look on Yusuf’s face stops him. He extricates himself, promises to return shortly with an update, and scuttles off, as Yusuf turns to see Muhammad regarding him appraisingly. He braces himself for his elder brother’s censure, but Muhammad laughs. “Perhaps you’re getting the knack of dealing with slippery palace bureaucrats after all. We should bring you to court.”</p><p>“Allah forbid,” Yusuf mutters, as the life of a posed, painted, fluttering, flattering shark in silk, constantly scheming and cutting throats to get ahead in life, competing furiously for the attention of the emir, his wives, courtiers, viziers, ministers, muftis, and other assorted functionaries, does not appeal to him in the least. “Why do you think this is taking so long?”</p><p>“First,” Muhammad says sagely, <em>“everything </em>takes a long time in court. Secondly, as you ordered, I was careful what I said, and who I told. I did not mention the name of the – ” he glances around – “particular piece of old jewelry that has piqued our interest. Thus we have been relegated to the slush pile of the thousands of petitioners who want to see the king every day. Albeit with a bit of special treatment because we’re of the princely bloodline, but we could wait here for hours more. I’ll see if I can slip someone a few coins to get this moving faster, but – ”</p><p>At that moment, however, he is interrupted (and the need for a bribe hopefully forestalled) by the unexpected reappearance of Abdallah ibn Ja’far, looking harried. “Prince Yusuf,” he says, slightly breathless. “Would you come with me? At once, please?”</p><p>This is what he wanted, but Yusuf still manages to be taken aback. “Wait,” he stammers. “Now?”</p><p>“Wait,” Muhammad echoes. “Him? Just him?”</p><p>“Yes, my prince. Just him. If you would?”</p><p>Yusuf hesitates. He glances at Nicolò and Nile, who are still absorbed in looking at the art, and then at his brother. “Just – make sure nothing happens to them, all right?” he says, low-voiced. Muhammad is a pill, but he did stand up for Nicolò when the guard thought about giving him a hard time earlier, and if nothing else, he is devoted to their family (just not always entirely in helpful ways). “While I’m off at – however long this takes?”</p><p>“You have my word.” Muhammad holds his gaze. “Nothing happens to them.”</p><p>Yusuf nods his thanks, then follows the chamberlain from the drawing room and back into the echoing labyrinth of the palace. It does indeed seem that his arrival has been expedited, because everyone they meet hurries to get out of their way. They pass through a numberless complexity of tall carved doors, gilded screens, columned corridors, and Yusuf loses track of all the turnings they have taken; clearly, you might spend your whole millennia-long life in this palace and never understand its secrets. But finally, they pass through a set of enormous teakwood doors studded with huge iron knockers in the shapes of horned animal heads. While Yusuf is still wondering if those are meant to represent his great-grandfather, and he is about to be face to face with the real thing in the flesh, Abdallah shows him into a vast, empty throne room. The light is green and laps eerily against the marble columns, spots of golden light dancing like the sun shining down through the sea. The throne on the far side is huge enough to accommodate a giant, towering on a plinth almost two stories tall. It is also empty. Huge bronze bowls hang from the distant ceiling on iron chains, dancing with emerald fire. It is beautiful and eerie and very otherworldly, and to Yusuf’s eyes, he (and Abdallah) appear to be the only living things here, except for a faint, sourceless, rustling whisper like wind on leaves. He glances around in confusion. “Is this supposed to be my – ”</p><p>“I must depart, Prince Yusuf.” The chamberlain looks nervous. “I would advise you to kneel and speak your name quite clearly. I will return if – I will return later.”</p><p>With that less-than-encouraging utterance, Abdallah bows deeply and speeds out, and the doors shut behind him with a hollow, sepulchral boom. Yusuf glances around one more time, doesn’t see any of the simpering, sycophantic courtiers that he expected to be basking in the king’s presence <em>(is </em>this the king’s presence?) and does as instructed, kneeling on the floor and pressing his forehead to the marble. “I am Yusuf ibn Umar ibn Zawba’ah Abu Hasan al-Kaysani,” he says in Daevic. “I am at the service of the king of my house and my people, Zawba’ah the Cyclone.”</p><p>For another moment, nothing. Then with a suddenness enough to make him jump, a massive column of green flame thunders to life on the throne. Either Zawba’ah is determined to impress and overawe his great-grandson, or as Maryam said, he simply is not human and sees no reason to make a presentation of himself as if he were. The flame forms into the head of an old white-bearded man with horns, and Yusuf thinks he can see the three other heads dancing and flickering in the fire, never quite given flesh or form, watching him with eyes of infernal smoke. <em>DESCENDANT, </em>Zawba’ah booms, his voice not quite spoken aloud, sensed in Yusuf’s mind and heart as much as heard with his ears. <em>WHY HAVE YOU COME TO ME?</em></p><p>Yusuf swallows hard. He doesn’t dare lie to his almighty ancestral sire, but seeing how powerful Zawba’ah is already (or at least good at showmanship) speaks to the fact that he must be careful in dangling the prospect of even more. “I humbly request your… your help, Great-Grandfather, in retrieving an item that has recently passed through my possession, and which I left in the old Nabataean city of Petra. Some of our house’s rivals – ” he isn’t sure if he should mention the Golden One or the Night Riders, as it might make Zawba’ah start spitting lightning bolts – “have been trying vigorously to retrieve it first, and if any of them were allowed to do so, it could cause… great damage to our entire world.”</p><p><em>IS THAT SO? </em>It’s impossible to tell how Zawba’ah might be taking this, not least since it’s very difficult to read the expressions of a huge column of fire. <em>THE NABATAEAN CITY IS CURSED. OUR PEOPLE DO NOT VENTURE THERE. WHY WOULD YOU? WHAT IS THIS THING?</em></p><p>“Because…” Yusuf hesitates. “Because I hoped none of our people would look there. It is an item of… particular and unusual strength, and it was best for it to remain – ”</p><p>A tendril of green flame lashes out like a whip, striking the stones next to him with a hiss and a trail of fountaining sparks. <em>DO NOT WASTE MY TIME, INFANT. WHAT IS THIS?</em></p><p>Yusuf cringes. Nothing for it. “The… Ring of Sulaiman.”</p><p>For several moments, the fire is so silent that Yusuf fears he has inadvertently given his great-grandfather a djinni heart attack. Then it explodes like the heart of a burning star, casting light and sparks to every corner of the shadowed throne room. The emerald fire in the salvers leaps up a hundred feet tall, whirling in matching cyclones, and the force of Zawba’ah’s voice blows Yusuf backward on the stones. <strong><em>THE RING OF SULAIMAN? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?</em></strong></p><p>“I don’t know.” Yusuf tries to arrest his rearward progress, facing down one of the ancient Seven Kings in the full and literal roar of his power – and this is even after Sulaiman cursed him. Zawba’ah truly unleashed is impossible to fathom. “As I said, the others want it. All of them. If you were to help our people lay hands on it first – ”</p><p><em>THE RING OF SULAIMAN. </em>The great old djinn still seems distracted, repeating it to be sure, as if Yusuf might have the nerve to pray a stupid prank on him. <em>YOU HAVE SEEN THIS?</em></p><p>“Yes. I had it briefly in my possession, but – ”</p><p><em>WHY WOULD YOU GIVE IT UP? </em>Zawba’ah demands. Another lash of fire strikes the stones, leaving a sooty scar. <em>ARE YOU A FOOL OR A TRAITOR?</em></p><p>“Neither, but – ”</p><p>With no warning, the green fire spills off the throne, pouring onto the floor, and rising up into an endless wall of flame. As Yusuf scoots hurriedly backwards, wondering whether Zawba’ah has just decided to incinerate him and have done with it, the wall parts into an arch – a doorway, leading into somewhere that is not the City of Iron. <em>GO THROUGH INTO THE CURSED CITY, </em>the king orders, <em>AND FETCH THE RING DIRECTLY. YOU SAID IT WAS THERE.</em></p><p>“I… did.” Well, Yusuf thinks grimly, this <em>is </em>what you wanted his help with, you idiot. He doesn’t think he can beg off, and if he can walk through into the very cellar where he buried the Ring, remove his protective spells, and retrieve it, then dart back through, that would solve one problem. He would undoubtedly be required to hand it over immediately to Zawba’ah on his return, and <em>refusing </em>the sire and lord and king of his entire house and family doesn’t seem like it’ll be on the table. Especially not when he has brought such useful hostages. He should count himself lucky that the king has not asked about Nicolò (or Nile), demanded an explanation for why Yusuf has brought the age-old rivals of their people into this place. Is this what he wanted? <em>Not everything you see is actually there. </em>But what choice does he have?</p><p>Slowly, Yusuf gets to his feet and approaches the magical gateway. It lashes and hisses the closer he gets, until even he, fire-blooded creature that he is, flinches away from the furnace roar of the blinding green heat. He thinks of the dusty cellar in Petra where he left the Ring, prays that the Night Riders are not sitting there and waiting to snap up anyone who appears, and that Zawba’ah’s magic can cover this eventuality. Then he takes a deep breath and steps through.</p><p>The warped weft of reality bends on him like a punch, hitting him in the chest hard enough to stagger, and the world briefly goes dark. Then he breathes the scent of dust and rot and spiderwebs, is aware of the roof pressing down on him with the weight of oppressive earth, and when he blinks the spots from his eyes, he sees that he is indeed standing in the dark, shabby hole in the ground where he dropped (or rather, Nile dropped) the Ring of Sulaiman into a battered amphora. The magical doorway back to the City of Iron still stands open behind him, rimmed in licking tongues of emerald fire. If he doesn’t want it to attract the attention of anyone who could be patrolling the deserted streets above and waiting for a clue, he must be fast.</p><p>Yusuf runs to the heap of buried jugs in the corner, sensing even as he does that they’ve been picked through. Someone has been here, someone has been looking, and there are fresh dark streaks in the dust where the remains have been moved around – and not by him. His heart is hammering in his chest, he feels like he has been plunged in a vat of ice-cold water, and his hands seem slow and clumsy as he digs through the clattering clay shards. He casts out tendrils of magic, searching for his spells, but if they were here, he should feel them by now. The Ring is gone. It’s not here. After all his careful plans – which he has to admit bitterly was mostly a series of increasingly desperate half-arsing – and he’s lost it. He, Yusuf ibn Umar <em>etcetera </em>al-Kaysani, is personally responsible for losing the Ring of Sulaiman. He told the witches about it, did they – Andromache and Quynh, did they come back here? But there’s no familiar taint of witches’ magic, no whisper of competing spellwork, the echoes they would normally leave. The Ring is just <em>gone. </em>The same way all the jinn won’t enter Petra because it’s cursed, and there are too many rumors that they go and don’t come back.</p><p>Yusuf’s head is wild with panic, as he tears through the stack of jugs like a wild animal and they break and shatter on the mildewed stone. Maybe if he breaks them all, the Ring will just happen to bounce out, but he already knows it won’t. Ya Allah, <em>Ya Allah. </em>He just told Zawba’ah the Cyclone that the Ring of Sulaiman was here, and now it isn’t. <em>Irritated </em>won’t exactly be the word.</p><p><em>WHAT IS TAKING SO LONG? </em>Right at that moment, with a knack for abominable timing, his great-grandsire’s voice booms through his head. <em>YOU SAID THE RING WAS HERE.</em></p><p>“It… it was, I had it right here,” Yusuf stammers, like a street thief feigning astonishment that something isn’t where the rightful owner left it. “I don’t know what happened to it.”</p><p>There is another horrible pause. Then the green fire of the gateway explodes outward, engulfing him before he could even think of trying to run up the steps and escape (he can’t do that, he can’t leave Nicolò and Nile as hostages back in the city) and Yusuf experiences the painful indignity of being dragged through a magical portal by his ankle, like a misbehaving child. Everything goes black, then his face slams painfully into the marble, his wind is knocked out, and he cracks his eyes open to see the column of fire – now with all four heads in full evidence, and all of them staring at him so wrathfully that it feels like the flesh being flayed from his bones – raging down on him. <em>YOU ARE A LIAR! </em>Zawba’ah roars, caring nothing for excuses or ameliorations, only the fact that he was promised something and it failed to be delivered, that a prince of his bloodline offered the most tempting prize in their entire world and then it came crashing down in the course of a few undignified dusty instants. <em>A LIAR! YOU ARE NO BLOOD OF MINE!</em></p><p>Yusuf tries to kick himself free, which only succeeds in lining him up more conveniently to take another of Zawba’ah’s blows full-on. It knocks him somersaulting, he tastes his blood in his mouth when he crashes down, and spits it onto the stones like a stain of night. He’s seriously afraid that his great-grandfather is going to kill him; what use is one descendant when you have so many, and especially when he turned out to be a mendacious liar? His mind is blank, he doesn’t know what happened or where the Ring might have gone, and he is powerless against the wrath of a Jinn King. He raises his hands – he thought the Night Riders were going to be the end of him, but this is somehow ten thousand times worse –</p><p>Then from behind him, he hears the heavy doors boom open, someone running across the stones, and the next instant, his brother Ismail throws himself between Yusuf and the raging fire. “Great-Grandsire!” he shouts. “Great-Grandsire, no! Leave off!”</p><p>Considering that Ismail has not been summoned into the royal presence, this is a huge risk to take, and Yusuf stares at him in shock. Ismail raises a brawny arm, catching the next whip of fire and deflecting it, and for a moment, confused, Zawba’ah falls back. This is just enough time for Ismail to pick up Yusuf by the armpits and speed him across the floor, his feet dragging, and out the door. It booms shut behind them as they lean against it, panting. Neither of them speak for several moments. Then, wheezing, Ismail manages, “What did you <em>say </em>to him?”</p><p>“The truth.” Yusuf’s chest feels charred, and he coughs up ash. He feels shamefully as if he is about to cry, and he has not wept since the day they lost Musa. “It went wrong.”</p><p>Ismail glances at him as if to say that’s an understatement. “Are you all right?”</p><p>“Fine.” Yusuf keeps staring ahead. “Why are you here?”</p><p>“Nicolò.” Ismail pauses, then shrugs. “He was worried about you. He urged me to come and look for you. He didn’t think he would be permitted to enter the king’s inner sanctum himself.”</p><p>No, a vampire most certainly would not, and it would be an easy way to make Zawba’ah even more angry. Yusuf spits more ash, wiping his mouth. “We’re in trouble.”</p><p>This turns out, yet again, to be a <em>thrilling</em> understatement. The palace guards race up to collar them before they can go another dozen steps, having heard the uproar in the throne room, and it turns out that until King Zawba’ah is satisfied with what they were doing here in the first place and the truth of Yusuf’s pernicious fables, none of them will be allowed to leave the city. In deference to their rank – they are still princes of the Banu Zawba’ah, for now – they are given comfortable quarters in the back quadrant of the palace. The balcony of Yusuf’s room is large and open, gazing up to the endless stars above, and the enormous cliff that plunges into dark oblivion, the gauzy curtain of another waterfall that falls down the face. It would be exactly the sort of place he loves, but he can’t relax and he doesn’t feel like it is intended to reward him. He already tried leaping into the air once, and he was knocked back by a violent invisible hand, hitting his head on the floor hard enough to see stars. This is how you taunt jinn until they break. Give them the sight of the light and air and the wide world, and never let them touch it.</p><p>He leans on the railing, still in pain, bloody, sore, and cursing himself for this entire idea, mind spinning in confusion and panic over the missing Ring, unsure what to do next, half-tempted to just keep bashing against the invisible barrier until it breaks or he passes out. Then there’s a knock at the door of his room, and he jumps a foot. <em>“What?”</em></p><p>There’s a very long pause until it opens. “Yusuf?”</p><p><em>Ah. </em>Yes. Just because this evening needed to get worse. Stiffly, slowly, Yusuf revolves around from the balcony and proceeds back inside on legs that feel as if they’re made of over-baked clay, cracked and shattering at a touch. His room is also huge, with an enormous silk-draped bed, golden filigree, an endless sea of power and majesty. Standing just inside the door, still in his tunic and leggings but having taken off the turban and jewelry, Nicolò looks like he doesn’t know what to do and is afraid to touch anything in case it breaks – or vanishes like smoke. His eyes widen as they fall on Yusuf’s bruised face. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “You look terrible.”</p><p>“Thanks.” The word burns out acidly, and Nicolò flinches. “Any other brilliant insights you would like to offer?”</p><p>“I… no.” Nicolò looks away. He seems to be struggling with something huge and unpleasant, and Yusuf’s abused guts wrench again. Why is the vampire here? What does he want to say? Why does he insist on tormenting him? “I’m… my room is down the hall,” Nicolò goes on awkwardly. “I just thought I’d come and… see how you were.”</p><p>“Fine,” Yusuf says again, working his tongue around the cuts in his mouth. “I was beaten up and nearly murdered by my all-powerful great-grandfather for accidentally lying to him about the Ring of Sulaiman, but I suppose we’ve all had worse days.”</p><p>He can’t keep the anger out of his voice, but there’s a bitter undercurrent of pain as well, and he doesn’t, he <em>can’t </em>stand for Nicolò to see it. He should thank him for sending Ismail to check on him, since he doesn’t know how he would have made it out of the throne room without his brother’s intervention, but he can’t get the words out. “Just go,” he manages. “Nicolò, just – leave me alone, I know you don’t want – ”</p><p>Nicolò crosses the room in three swift strides and kisses him.</p><p>Yusuf is so shocked that it takes him a full three heartbeats to figure out what’s going on, much less what he should do about it. His face still aches, but somehow not as terribly when Nicolò is holding it between his hands, the coolness of his fingers deeply soothing to the burning ache that rages deep in Yusuf’s battered soul. He should push the vampire away as a matter of form, but he can’t bring himself to do it, and after how he has been treated today by his own ancestor, he feels no particular need to bow and fall in line over the antiquarian rules. His hands float up of their own accord – he worries, foolishly, about burning Nicolò, when he was only too happy to do so during their fight in the cave – and they pull each other closer. The huge silk-draped bed is right there. Some mad part of Yusuf wants to drag Nicolò there, hammer out this new and strange connection in an even deeper way, since it cannot be denied that it feels so much better to kiss him than to argue with him. It is utterly maddening, and yet even then, Yusuf cannot summon up the strength to stop. He sighs and then outright moans into Nicolò’s mouth, as Nicolò lightly licks away the blood from his lip and they both feel the frisson of pleasure that passes through him. He whispers, “Yusuf – ”</p><p>Even that doesn’t quite pull them apart, even though Yusuf should feel revulsion at the idea of a <em>bloodsucker </em>getting any taste of his. Their hands grip each other’s arms, roam and wander, pulling them closer to each other, tangled up, kissing harder and harder, as Nicolò’s mouth begins to move down Yusuf’s cheek and jaw, to the hollow of his throat, the hammer of his pulse, the life and fire that burns in him. It is difficult to say what would have happened if a distant crash outside the door did not finally startle them apart, ragged and gasping and heaving. Yusuf feels drunk and dazed and dizzied far more effectively than he did from any of his great-grandfather’s violence. “Nicolò – ” he rasps. “What are you – ”</p><p>“I’m sorry.” Nicolò can’t seem to look at him. “I shouldn’t have. I know you love Prince Sa’id.”</p><p><em>Sa’id. </em>The name occurs to Yusuf blurrily, as if from a thousand years ago. It cannot be denied that at least in the abstract, yes, he does, though he can’t figure out why Nicolò should have an opinion on that. There was that disastrous conversation in his bedchamber, but he said it was none of Nicolò’s business, why should that –</p><p>Wait a minute, was Nicolò actually <em>upset </em>about the prospect? Is <em>that </em>why he ran off so precipitately? But no, it can’t – that doesn’t make sense, it –</p><p>“I promise,” Nicolò says, when Yusuf still doesn’t speak. “I won’t do it again if you – if you don’t wait. I know the Ring isn’t in Petra, but we’ll find it, we – ”</p><p>For a moment, Yusuf is still too stunned by what just happened to register these words at all. Then, like hammers pummeling down on him one by one, they do. He takes a step back, and then another one. “I don’t recall,” he says, his voice sounding strange – hoarse and savage. “I don’t recall that I said anything about the Ring not being in Petra any more. Not least that <em>you </em>said anything about knowing this all along.”</p><p>Nicolò opens his mouth – then stops. A horrible look of aghast disbelief crosses his face – directed at himself, not Yusuf. He did not mean to say that.</p><p>All the world turns to ice and ash. All the possibility that existed just an instant ago crumbles.</p><p>“What,” Yusuf whispers, because he can’t get up enough breath to speak. <em>“What did you do.”</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Viewed from above, Andromache of Scythia thinks, the Holy City of Jerusalem resembles a carelessly dropped chess set. All these kings and bishops, pawns and queens, knights and rooks scattered everywhere, stacked up against each other and spilling off their squares, cracked and broken but fighting to move, jostling for position even when the purpose of the game is not yet clear and the checkmate of the last king bathed the ground so lastingly in blood that she can almost smell it on the wind. It remains surprising to Andromache that Jerusalem has acquired such significance as to be placed on the center of the <em>Mappa mundi, </em>the heart and soul of the known world. She was here in its glory days under Solomon, and after he died, though it was never insignificant, it was mostly known as the capital of a dusty backwater Roman province constantly convulsed by territorial and tribal squabbles. Until that Jewish carpenter from Galilee came along and began rousing the rabble, and they were doomed to never know a moment’s peace again. Uruk, Akkad, Persepolis, Babylon, the splendor of mighty Nineveh – these are the cities that Andromache remembers, the ones that she loved. Jerusalem is undeniably beautiful, even now, but she’s never worked out why it’s worth spilling quite so much blood over.</p><p>Andromache does not remember King Solomon very well (it <em>was </em>over two thousand years ago, and she only met him briefly) but what she does remember is unshakably vivid. He was tall, with black hair and beard, bronze skin, and eyes like a storm at sea. He was handsome on his own accord, but the Ring granted him an unnatural, dazzling allure that was almost irresistible (no wonder the man collected so many wives and concubines). The story of him ordering a baby to be cut in half to discern which woman was its rightful mother is among the more famous of his judgments, and not inaccurate as a mark of his reserved, ruthless, calculating nature. As servants of the Queen of Saba, Andromache and Quynh were well placed to appreciate these facets of his personality, and the long battle of wits (and warfare) he waged with Makeda to get her to come from Ethiopia and pay homage. It is the last charge their mistress gave them, to be sure that Solomon’s Ring and Solomon’s magic could do more damage in the world, and since both of them respected and loved the queen as they have rarely allowed themselves to do with mortals, they agreed. Even if that was a sort of indefinite djinn-wish on its own that has left a heavy burden on them down the centuries. Here they are two millennia later, still bound to fulfil it. It was less difficult before, while the Ring remained lost. But Andromache cannot help but wonder if Makeda foresaw this day coming somehow, and knew that it must be planned for.</p><p>Andromache shakes herself. It has been a long flight back from Egypt, with possibly too much time to think, but now she must attend to other things. The dark street is coming up fast below her, and she decelerates, burning off speed until she touches down, her boots leaving deep grooves in the mud. There’s a quick shadow passing overhead, a whisper against the moon, and then Quynh lands with no sound at all, taking form out of the night like the ancient goddesses that both of them were once revered as. She smiles mischievously at Andromache, and Andromache smiles back, despite herself. Quynh has that effect on her.</p><p>The two witches glance around to be sure that nobody has observed their arrival – they have woven spells to disguise themselves and make it very unlikely that humans would notice a thing, but that says nothing about the seething mob of magical creatures camping out in Jerusalem these days – and then dart to the waiting house, which just so happens to be Nicolò di Genova’s. The vampire isn’t currently using it, and since they have hammered out some sort of rough and temporary alliance, Andromache feels that he can yield up his vacated lodgings for their purposes. It is already marked out as a vampire’s lair, so humans will have instinctively avoided it, and it is just down the street from Rabbi Samuel ben Kalonymus. As Quynh is expertly unlocking the door, Andromache glances down the alley and catches sight of a stumpy clay figure hidden in the shadows, silently observing their unauthorized ingress. That will be the golem, then. Rabbi Samuel will know they’re here. Whether he decides to pay a call in person to inveigh for the return of <em>The Key of Solomon </em>is another matter, but one for later.</p><p>The door swings open, and Andromache and Quynh step inside, redoing the protective wards behind them. The women have been in here before, while they were stealing that very book, and the vampire’s housekeeping has not improved much since. Tapestries are nailed up over all the windows, and it has a stale, shut-up smell that results from a man, even if not a human one with the same bodily needs, being kept in one place for too long and failing to attend to his personal hygiene. Quynh wrinkles her nose and casts another spell, replacing the funk of overworked and underfed vampire with the enticing scent of a jasmine garden, and Andromache wonders if there are any bottles of curdling blood in here that they need to clear out. Most vampires prefer it directly from the source, of course, but nothing about Nicolò di Genova struck her as an ordinary vampire. That means they’ll need to keep a sharp eye on him. At least when you know how someone is likely to act, you can predict their movements. When you have no idea, they’re dangerous.</p><p>Andromache and Quynh attend to a few other items of housework, rearranging Nicolò’s cluttered desk and barely-qualifying bed into objects of acceptable cleanliness and comfort, conjuring globes of witchlight to float in the air and provide illumination rather than take down the tapestries (they themselves can do with a little extra secrecy) and making sure that there is, in fact, no bottled blood (or emaciated captive) lurking unpleasantly out of sight. Then Quynh starts to undress, shucking her veil and helmet and long red <em>áo giao lĩnh</em>, her belt of jeweled daggers, shaking out her black hair from its high buns. “Come to bed, Andy.”</p><p>“In a moment.” Andromache bends over Nicolò’s desk, picking up the stacks of books and frowning. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” she says. “There are still too many moving parts. Right before we left Jerusalem to go after the djinn and Nile Nesanet, we had more reports of attacks by ghuls. If that was what was after Nile in the first place – and only because she had the Ring – why are they still around? Why are they still attacking people? Who is controlling them, and who killed Diyab? Did he know it was <em>The </em>Ring that he gave her?”</p><p>“Ghuls are notoriously indiscriminate in their tastes,” Quynh remarks archly, shedding her long linen under-tunic. She steps out of it, graceful and nude and breathtakingly elegant in the witchlight. “If it’s nearby and alive, they will eat it. Andy, <em>come to bed. </em>We will work on this in the morning, when we have been properly rested and refreshed.”</p><p>“But it doesn’t make sense.” Andromache keeps sifting through Nicolò’s notes, to see if the vampire has made reference to any of this, an upsurge in ghul attacks or other menaces on Jerusalem’s human population. This place is already such a tinderbox, any unexplained threats could snowball into an enemy even worse than the Fatimids, and then the fur really <em>would </em>fly. “We were working on the assumption that the ghuls were only called once, and they only attacked Nile in hopes of getting the Ring, but they were thwarted when she put it on and accidentally summoned Yusuf al-Kaysani. Whoever is in charge of them would want them off the streets, wouldn’t they? You can’t use such powerful magic and not attract attention, and if the ghuls failed to bring their master the girl <em>or </em>the Ring, why are they still – ”</p><p>“As I said,” Quynh repeats, a slight exasperation edging her voice; they have had this argument on many late nights when Andy just won’t stop working. “Because ghuls will eat anything. And they can be hard to banish, once they’ve been created. Do you mean to sleep standing up?”</p><p>“Whoever had enough power to call up ghuls from the sack of Jerusalem, five years dead, would have enough power to make them vanish once they had fulfilled – or hadn’t fulfilled – their purpose.” Andromache keeps staring at Nicolò’s messy scrawl. Of course the useless vampire doesn’t appear to have taken note of any of this. “It’s a deliberate loose end for them to still be around. Either that, or the plan was far greater than just catching Nile, and we don’t have any idea who would be responsible, even if we think we’ve got a handle on – ”</p><p>At that, she is interrupted as arms slide around her waist from behind, Quynh spins her around like a samurai about to perform a brutal takedown, and pulls Andy’s own helmet and veil off, her ragged dark braid falling loose over her shoulders. Quynh undoes it, shucking a notable amount of dust and sand onto the floor, then takes Andy’s face in her hands and stands on her tiptoes, kissing her slowly and luxuriantly. When they break apart, Quynh whispers, “Are you coming with me now, or must I do that again?”</p><p>Andromache snorts a reluctant laugh, able to tell that diving down a midnight rabbit warren is not likely to get them anywhere just now, and after a long pause just in case some brilliant insight should elect this moment to arrive, sighs and lets Quynh tug her to the bed. Quynh deftly unsnaps the rivets and straps of Andy’s gambeson, pulling it off, and sets it aside. Then she unties the muslin tunic that Andy wears beneath, as Andy herself undoes her skirt and leggings and chausses, shucking the still-muddy boots. When she has thus been reduced to a state of total nudity, Quynh tosses back the covers – it doesn’t look as if Nicolò has ever touched this bed in his life, let alone with company, do it good to get some exercise – sinks invitingly onto the mattress, and pulls Andromache down with her.</p><p>Andy sighs in deep relief and pleasure as their lips meet, as Quynh’s callused archer hands cup her breasts, tracing circles on her nipples. She adjusts her position, sliding onto her back and pulling Quynh on top of her, marveling as always how her lover looks like an ancient empress carved in ivory and onyx, something as ageless and timeless as they themselves are. They have been together for almost three and a half thousand years by now, and yet Andy does not imagine that she could ever get tired of this, their entwined bodies in the low golden light, the slow sliding rhythm of Quynh’s fingers inside her, the deep and deliberate kisses that thrill her as if they are coming together in the dark temple of their first mistress, Enheduanna, the Sumerian princess, poet, and high priestess of the moon god, in the seductive palm-treed shadows of ancient Ur. Andromache has lost many memories over the millennia, but she still remembers exactly how the moon looked on the very first night Quynh kissed her, the low porcelain shadows through the trees. She remembers the way it felt when she first jerked and sighed and soared into climax, breaths caught and gasping in their throats, and the way they smiled as if they had shared some eternal feminine mystery that men would spend entire lifetimes trying and failing to grasp. Oftentimes, in fact, Andromache still feels this way.</p><p>She falls back on the pillows, mouth open, chest heaving, as Quynh’s ruthless fingers tease and toy her to release, as she mounts Andy and grinds their hips together, then falls to all fours as they kiss and bite and Andy rolls them over and pins Quynh beneath her for just desserts. When they have both had their pleasure from each other, they settle down in the tousled bedcovers, Andy pulls Quynh into her arms and buries her nose into the luxuriant fall of her hair, and – feeling boneless, drained, deliriously and agreeably disconnected from weariness or pain, from lurking questions, from ghuls and vampires and missing Rings alike – they sleep.</p><p>They wake in the early hours, though the only hint is the few cracks of light that pry through Nicolò’s armor of tapestries, and roll out to collect their clothes and get dressed. They have a great deal to do in Jerusalem, and lounging around in sated post-coital bliss is, unfortunately, not one of them. They help each other with the snaps and buckles and laces of their garments, in a habit so deeply grained as to go beyond conscious awareness; in fact, Andy has had the embarrassing thought that she might not even remember how to get dressed without Quynh. She simply has not needed to, ever since she came upon the other woman in the blazing sun of the high Mesopotamian desert, healing from a wound that should have killed her, and knew – for the first time in almost a thousand years – that there was someone else like her. Since then, she has never again been truly alone.</p><p>The two witches sling on their assortment of weapons, with another spell to make them less obvious to unfriendly eyes; they don’t want to be strolling around looking as if they’re girded for another siege. Then they leave the house and step into the morning of the Holy City, trying to decide which avenue to pursue first. They could try to track down the mysterious master of the ghul-summoning ifrit, as Andromache was dwelling on last night. They could try to find Sebastien le Livre and discern which game he’s playing, as the involvement of a solitary human in the Ring sweepstakes is an outlier and needs to be understood with urgency. They could try to find the murderer of Diyab the brass merchant, and obtain the information, willingly or otherwise, as to why exactly they killed him. They could track down Stephen de Méric, King Baldwin’s thuggish agent, and find what exactly the king knows (or suspects) about the Ring of Solomon. They could find another victim of the ghul attacks and see if there is a pattern between them and Nile (perhaps the ifrit’s master does not yet know that the Ring escaped Jerusalem?) And, of course, the paramount question of its whereabouts, if it is no longer in Petra. If Barqan the Black had it, or any of the other Jinn Kings, Andromache thinks they would know by now, but they can’t be sure.</p><p>They make their way into the bazaar, opening for the day’s business, as Andy hopes that an obvious choice will be so obliging as to present itself. As Quynh steps off to buy some breakfast, she surveys the merchants setting out their wares – then does in fact recognize one. Andromache crosses the square in a flash and asks in Amharic, “Are you Alimayu Negasi?”</p><p>The young Ethiopian man looks up with a start. She can tell that he recognizes her too, even if he cannot immediately put words to it. He surveys her with guarded dark eyes, takes a step back, and glances around as if in search of a weapon. Andy could break his arm in a blink, but she thinks it wise to keep relations cordial. After a considerably tense pause, he says, “Who are <em>you?”</em></p><p>She’ll take that for assent, then. “Is your cousin Nile? Nile Nesanet?”</p><p>“Why?” Alimayu draws up angrily. “Where is she? What do you people want with her? I received some baffling letter that she had been drawn away on an errand she couldn’t explain, that she would return when it was finished, and she apologized for being unable to say more. I thought it was some sort of wild trap – I still do. I swear, if you’ve hurt her – ”</p><p>“I haven’t laid a hand on her.” Andromache can appreciate the fact that Alimayu is genuinely concerned about his cousin’s well-being, even if she needs to keep him from boiling over. “I do know something about where she has gone, and she is well, I promise.” No need to mention that there’s no guarantee she stays that way. “It’s just… very difficult to explain, and I’m not sure that you knowing would be helpful. It could make you into more of a mark.”</p><p>“More of a mark?” Alimayu stares at her incredulously. “Wait, I recognize you. You and your companion were in the tavern the first night we arrived in Jerusalem. You drank like a man.”</p><p>This is, in the main, not an inaccurate description of her habits, even if Andromache can sense that he doesn’t mean it as a compliment. “I’m glad we know each other, then,” she says noncommittally. “You said that you got a letter? From who?”</p><p>“From my cousin, theoretically.” Alimayu eyes her with continued mistrust. “I think she has been kidnapped, but I would have expected demands for ransom. That English soldier who picked a fight with us at the tavern, he’s been turning up again and hassling us, I thought he surely must have taken her. Instead, he wants to know where she is. As if I’d ever tell him – or you,” he adds challengingly, chin jutting out. “So unless you’re going to return her right now – ”</p><p>“I can help you,” Andromache interrupts. “And promise that she’s safe. The English soldier – would that be Stephen de Méric?”</p><p>Alimayu squints at her even more suspiciously. “How do you know – ”</p><p>“Let’s admit that I have been paying attention to this situation for a while.” Andromache is not unsympathetic, but she’s not going to let him accuse her of wrongdoing or bombard her with questions indefinitely. “I’m on your side, and I’ve seen your cousin. It’s not Stephen de Méric who has her.”</p><p>“Oh?” Alimayu folds his arms. “Then who does?”</p><p>Andromache weighs up how he might take “a djinn named Yusuf and his vampire friend, Nicolò.” If that is exactly what it is. “It’s… complicated,” she says instead, just as Quynh joins them with two hot sausage rolls and an inquisitive expression. “Alimayu, this is my partner, Quynh. Quynh, this is Nile’s cousin, Alimayu.”</p><p>“You <em>both</em> know her…?” Alimayu sighs deeply and gives up any pretense that he doesn’t want anything else to do with them. “Fine. Are <em>you </em>here for the ransom? I’ll pay it. Just tell me that Nile’s alive, she’ll be home soon, and then we can leave here and forget – ”</p><p>“I hope she will be,” Andromache says, “but I don’t know. Nile received a ring, didn’t she? From a brass merchant named Diyab? Did you know that he’s dead?”</p><p>Alimayu casts a shifty look around the marketplace. “We shouldn’t talk about this here.”</p><p>Andy doesn’t disagree, and after Alimayu has summoned one of his companions to arrive and take over the stall, he leads them at a brisk trot out of the bazaar and down the twisting lanes to a tiny, cool church. Perhaps Alimayu thinks that holy ground offers him a measure of protection (which, given what is after them, may not be wrong), or he’s testing to see if they can enter, which they do. They sit down on the low cedar benches, looking up at the altar and the slitted window which casts dim yellow desert sunlight on the cloth. Then he says bluntly, “What do you know about the night my cousin disappeared?”</p><p>Andy weighs up what to say. Obviously, they can’t get through any remotely honest explanation without invoking the supernatural, and she can’t be certain how Alimayu will take it. It’s not like she seriously thinks he can harm them, and he’s probably not terribly eager to run off and involve the authorities, but you have to be careful when broadening a human’s perception of the world. Instead of answering directly, she says, “I take it you’ve tried to get her back.”</p><p>“Of course I’ve tried to get her back.” Alimayu throws her a mildly scandalized look. “I tried to work out who sent the letter. I looked up and down the streets until my feet were bleeding. I told the rest of our traveling party and we scoured every place in Jerusalem she could possibly be hidden. I even went to the castle and tried to personally speak with King Baldwin, or any of the members of the Haute Cour. I told them that I was a Christian man, I was willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of a royal audience, there was a young woman missing in suspicious circumstances and I thought the king should know.” He stares at his hands. “All they saw was a black man. A black heathen speaking Arabic – they had to fetch a Frankish translator, and then charged me for the trouble. I never got near the king. I was informed that he was not the ruler of Ethiopia and could not be expected to chase after every missing girl in the city, and if she had not run off on her own. One of them even asked me if I was sure that I wasn’t a Saracen, just in case I somehow couldn’t be trusted to tell the difference. So what else am I supposed to do? I’ve stayed at the same spot in the market every day, just in case Nile comes back and needs to find me. If she’s not back by the end of summer – ”</p><p>Andy feels a pang of sympathy for the poor man, who was clearly feeling harassed and overburdened with the pressures of making sure this trip went well even <em>before </em>his young kinswoman mysteriously vanished off the face of the earth. There’s a pause, then Alimayu glances at her. “You still haven’t told me what you know.”</p><p>“Ah. Yes.” Andromache takes a slow breath. There’s really no non-insane way to ease into this, and she glances at Quynh, who slips off to weave a discreet spell on the door and windows and ensure that they will remain undisturbed. “Your cousin is fine, but she’s had to leave Jerusalem unexpectedly, and we don’t know when exactly she’ll return. The brass merchant, Diyab – the ring he sold to her wasn’t just any ring. It was… magical.”</p><p>“Yes, so he said. He was insistent that we pay two bezants for that piece of junk, though I think she got him down to one.” Alimayu looks impatient. “Then later that day, we stopped to get food for supper and she just… she vanished.”</p><p>“That is because she put on the ring and…” Andy pauses. “She summoned a djinn named Yusuf al-Kaysani.”</p><p>“What?” Alimayu looks as if she’s pulling his leg with a ridiculous fairytale, he’s going to lose it. “Who is Yusuf al-Kaysani? It sounds like a Saracen name. If he took Nile – ”</p><p>He’s all set to get up and charge off again, and while Andy might approve of seeing the crafty djinn be ambushed by an angry human kinsman, she can’t actually permit this situation to get any worse. She grabs Alimayu with one hand and conjures a ball of fire with the other, in which Nile’s stunned face appears as it looked when Andy and Quynh met them at the oasis, post-Night Riders rescue. <em>“I’m sorry,”</em> Nile says, in tinny echo. <em>“The Ring of </em>what?”</p><p>“<em>Solomon,</em>” Andromache’s own self answers. “<em>Ancient magician-king of Israel, son of David? His Ring. Most powerful magical object to have ever existed. Did your companion somehow fail to mention that?”</em></p><p>“What…?” Alimayu sits down abruptly, looking stunned. “What is this?”</p><p>“That’s what she said when I told her what her ring was.” Andromache keeps firm hold of him, just in case. “This was at an oasis outside the city of Petra, where we met her properly for the first time. She and the djinn had been in a spot of trouble. We helped them out of it.”</p><p>Alimayu’s eyes dart between the small fiery Nile to Andromache’s face. “You’re… you’re a…”</p><p>“Witch.” She waits for the inevitable flinch; she’s too used to it to let it sting, at least too much. “Among other things. We both are. Your cousin has the Ring of Solomon. Or at least she did. Do you know what that is?”</p><p>“Of course I know what it <em>is.</em>” Alimayu’s response is sharp by reflex, but he still looks pole-axed. “But that’s just a – ”</p><p>“It’s real.” Quynh has come to join them and evidently feels that he can use a few more kicks in the backside at getting over the threshold of disbelief. “And it’s out there in the world and causing problems, not least for Nile. Since she’s disappeared, has there been anything else strange? People or things you can’t explain? Reanimated corpses trying to eat you?”</p><p>Alimayu blanches, while Andy hides a smile in her hand. That’s Quynh for you: absolutely no mercy, straight to the heart, no matter how shocking it might sound. After so long, Andy’s fairly used to not giving a well-formed shit what the humans think (or maybe she just pretends that she doesn’t, because it’s easier and less exhausting than constantly caring), but Quynh doesn’t even bother with the pretense, and it’s enviable. “I’m sorry,” Alimayu stammers. “Reanimated corpses doing <em>what?”</em></p><p>“They’re called ghuls.” Quynh cocks her head, sizing him up. “They’re corpses that are summoned from their graves by a greater demon called an ifrit, and there’s one currently active in Jerusalem even after your cousin disappeared. We were speculating as to who might be controlling the ifrit, or who it’s targeting. Do you have any ideas?”</p><p>Alimayu’s mouth is still open. Andromache can hear the gears grinding in his head, the information he is being asked to process, the complete reconfiguration of his reality. To his credit, at least he doesn’t get up and run out screaming. “I don’t think…” he manages. “No… corpses, as far as I know, no. But there was – ” He stops, frowning. “There was some strange scratching, the night after I went to see the king, but there’s no reason to think that it’s a – ”</p><p>Andy and Quynh exchange a look. Ghuls are terrifying and effective in their one job, but they’re also stupid as hell, which might be the only reason that anyone ever gets away from them. They can be stymied by a closed door or a high wall; they’re perfectly capable of tearing through it and sometimes do, but if they’ve lost sight of their prey for long enough, they can become confused and go away. If the mysterious orchestrator of the attacks on Jerusalem was looking for Nile, but she slipped away, would he (or she) know to go for Alimayu and company next? Would that do them any good? Presumably they want the Ring, like everyone. Have the attacks continued because they don’t have it, or stopped because they have? Is there any correlation at <em>all?</em></p><p>See, Andromache thinks. This is what I was trying to work out last night. There’s still a big missing piece in what’s going on in this city, and any creature strong enough to summon and control an ifrit of this magnitude would leave magical traces everywhere. Especially if they were new to Jerusalem, or arrived recently. Such an upstart newcomer would disturb all the embedded networks of power and patronage, get everyone allied against them, and if they started sending marauding ghuls through the streets – <em>someone </em>would notice, and then –</p><p>It feels like it’s right there, hanging just beyond her reach, but she still can’t see it. Instead she looks at Alimayu. “Would you believe it if I asked if you wanted to go back to the palace?”</p><p>“The palace?” Alimayu blinks. “Back to King Baldwin’s court, you mean? Is there any guarantee that I’d get any further than last time?”</p><p>“Yes,” Quynh says pleasantly. “Or I’d break their arms.”</p><p>Alimayu makes a faint strangled noise, his eyes whizzing between them. “Who <em>are </em>you two?”</p><p>“We’re interested in seeing your cousin safe,” Quynh says, somewhat more gently. “Especially as long as she is the Ringbearer. We’d like this to end in a way that keeps everyone out of trouble and forestalls any more attacks on innocent people. Do you want to help Nile, or – ?”</p><p>“I’ll do anything to help Nile.” Alimayu folds his arms. “I just still don’t know why on earth I should possibly trust you.”</p><p>Andy notes that the trait of not giving in easily to supernatural creatures and their nonsense clearly runs in their family. She can’t help but be impressed by it, even if part of her just wants to clunk him over the head and get out of here before he can put up another argument. Alimayu chews it over. Then, looking as if he will deeply regret this at the earliest opportunity, but doesn’t see another option, he announces, “Fine. We’ll go up to the palace. If you can actually do – if you have, you know, <em>magic – </em>then you can demonstrate it. <em>If </em>this is related to helping Nile, and not whatever insane plot of yours.”</p><p>“We’ll call it both.” Andy offers him a hand. “You want to find out what happened to your cousin, and we need to find out what King Baldwin knows about all this. Besides, I’m guessing that you wouldn’t mind seeing those haughty gatekeepers who dismissed you as a Saracen heathen forced to grovel with their faces in the dirt.”</p><p>Alimayu eyes her appraisingly. He doesn’t deny this, even as he raises a dryly sarcastic eyebrow. “And you intend to make them grovel with their faces in the dirt?”</p><p>“I mean.” Quynh shrugs. “Only if they force us to.”</p><p>Alimayu utters a short, startled laugh. Then his expression falls, and he rubs his face, shaking his head. “I must be crazy,” he says. “But I’m not leaving this city without Nile, and if any man has laid a finger on her, this Yusuf al-Kaysani or otherwise, then yes, I intend to make them pay. Promise not to kill me when my back is turned?”</p><p>“Promise.” Despite herself, Andy likes this prickly, proud, stubborn young man, who knows his own worth and is unwilling to compromise or conciliate on it just to please powerful white western Europeans. (Andy herself is neither of these things; she’s a Scythian, one of the ancient Russo-Iranian warrior nomads of the Eurasian steppe. For that matter, she’s not a Christian either, and hence has little sympathy for Jerusalem’s new masters, especially after all the blood they spilled.) “I don’t think that I’ve told you my name. It’s Andromache. Let’s go.”</p><p>Alimayu considers her for a final moment, then shakes her hand, once and firmly. With that, they leave the church, step out into the streets, and start to walk. Andy keeps a sharp eye on the alleys, since she doesn’t need something running out of there unexpectedly and taking her by surprise. Ghuls aren’t fond of hot bright sunlight for obvious reasons; they prefer the dark, slimy, cold underbelly of things. But if someone’s been audacious enough to deploy them into Jerusalem at repeated intervals, whether for strategic purposes or just for simple terror, Andy doesn’t want to take the chance. Besides, there could be other magical monsters, and she keeps one hand on the hilt of her shortsword. Alimayu is a merchant and only carries a bronze dagger. He might be able to protect himself from human foes, but no need to take the risk.</p><p>“Do you know where Nile is now?” Alimayu asks. “How far away is she?”</p><p>“She is… far away.” Andromache doesn’t want to get drawn too much on the specifics. “You’ll just have to trust us for now that she’s safe.”</p><p>“You said she was the – ” Alimayu checks himself and glances around, evidently deciding that now that they’re out of the enchanted safety of the church, he shouldn’t ask any more delicate questions. Quieter, he adds, “Just tell me nobody’s hurt her.”</p><p>“I don’t think so.” That, at least, Andromache can be honest about. “She’s under the protection of the djinn she inadvertently summoned. He has to look after her no matter what.”</p><p>Alimayu grunts skeptically, evidently not considering Yusuf al-Kaysani terribly trustworthy on this front, but refrains from asking anything else as they make their way toward the Tower of David and the Jerusalem Citadel, located to the immediate south of Hebron Gate in the city walls. This used to be the stronghold of the city’s Fatimid rulers, but is now being rebuilt and expanded as a residential and defensive palace complex for the Christian kings. It’s on the opposite side of Jerusalem from the Temple Mount, looking west, which Andromache finds rather fitting. The formidable iron-toothed portcullis is guarded by several soldiers wearing King Baldwin’s personal emblem, the four-sided golden cross, and they are unimpressed by the unannounced advent of two women and a black man. “Be off with you,” one of them says, not politely. “Alms were given this morning, so if you wanted some, you should have come earlier.”</p><p>“We don’t want alms.” Quynh steps up to him with a sweet smile. It’s momentarily unclear even to Andy as to whether she intends to just kick him in the balls and bash him over the head with his halberd, but instead she leans close and whispers in his ear. Before the guard can react to this presumptuous familiarity with his person, his face goes blank, he bows deeply, and pivots on his heel, beckoning to his fellow. They hurry off at speed, and Quynh steps back, looking pleased. “See,” she says. “No arm-breaking required, though that’s something of a pity.”</p><p>“What did you do?” Alimayu looks impressed, but leery. “Some kind of – ?”</p><p>He’s wise enough not to say <em>spell </em>aloud, though he’s clearly thinking it. Instead, he casts a half-awed, half-revulsed look up at the Tower of David. This was the place where the crusaders broke into the city after the punishing six-week siege, where Jerusalem was formally surrendered to Raymond of Saint-Gilles, count of Toulouse, and then the crusaders went on their bloodthirsty spree of murdering all the Muslim and Jewish residents within its walls, as testament to their new religious purity. It’s impossible not to stand in its shadow and feel that weight, and Andromache looks around warily. If the ghuls <em>are </em>made from the dead of the sack, Jerusalem’s gorily murdered past residents now literally haunting its streets and attacking its <em>current </em>residents, this might be a prime place to attract them. She jumps when someone moves unexpectedly along the wall, but it’s just a servant. She needs to get hold of herself.</p><p>It takes some while, but the guards eventually return, say that they will be pleased to conduct the visitors to the royal waiting room, and fall into step on each side of the trio, escorting them across the dry moat and into the under-construction palace. The new stonework is unmarked and white, still missing plaster and mortar in places, whereas in contrast, it’s clear what was here before the crusade and (barely) survived. It’s smashed into fragments, twisted and stained, still in the process of being removed or painted over, old Islamic art either pulled down or made over in the likeness of Christian symbols. Andromache has seen many civilizations rise and fall, but rarely so arrestingly, directly, poignantly right in the middle of that process, like two river currents crashing together. In a way, it’s not surprising that the ghuls are here, haunting the city that has been built on their bones. It is only just punishment.</p><p>They are showed to a small but handsomely furnished antechamber, hung with tapestries: the golden eagle of the dukes of Lorraine, Baldwin’s maternal family, the black lion of his father Count Eustace, who fought at William the Conqueror’s side at the Battle of Hastings, his personal four-sided golden cross, and the red cross on white that is used as the banner of the Republic of Genoa, Baldwin’s troublesome military allies. At the last, Andromache wonders again what Nicolò di Genova’s story is. Who is his maker? How has he come to Jerusalem, and was it in the vanguard of his city’s crusaders or on his own? Is he truly acting alone in his quest for the Ring of Solomon, and only to shed his unwanted burden of immortality? Even if it comes attached with an unfortunately liquid diet, it’s not something that all men would want to cast aside. There is power in it, long life, great prestige as a warrior. An unscrupulous vampire could insert themselves into human politics and rule warmbloods for centuries, one of the great fears of the other creatures. And Nicolò doesn’t care for <em>any </em>of that?</p><p>They sit down, are offered refreshments, and wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, not wishing to deplore her lover’s skills in ensorcellment, but hoping that they will get a move on, Andromache turns to Quynh. “You <em>did </em>tell them that we wished to see the king, yes?”</p><p>“Of course,” Quynh replies, looking mildly stung. “I realize we have better things to be doing than loitering around his drawing room all afternoon, but – ”</p><p>At that precise moment, they are interrupted as the door opens, and a manservant in royal livery peeks in. “Goodman, goodwives? If you would be so kind as to come with me?”</p><p>Alimayu, Andromache, and Quynh exchange a final round of glances, then get to their feet and follow the servant out of the room and up a steep set of tightly spiraling stairs, up to a broad corridor, a set of double doors, and an imposing presence-chamber hung with more banners worked in the same devices as earlier. They frame a wooden throne set on a gilded dais, currently unoccupied, but it looks as if the king has stepped out for a wine and piss break between petitioners and expects to be back shortly. The tall slitted windows cast stripes of hot sunlight on the floor, a jarring contrast between the European-style setting and the Palestinian desert outside, and Baldwin has kept some of the original decoration of the room. The witches and their companion wait in nervous silence, until a door opens again, and the king of the Holy Land sweeps into the room.</p><p>Baldwin of Boulogne, third son of Count Eustace of Boulogne and Ida of Lorraine, is just about forty years old, and not without considerable personal attractions. His hair is sandy blond, his eyes clear and piercing, and he wears a long blue tunic and a simple golden circlet, preferring to emphasize his rank with skill and charisma rather than excessive adornment. Despite that rank, he is far from religiously devout. Indeed as the youngest son in his family, he was originally intended for a church career, but abandoned his positions in favor of pursuing secular power (and inheritance), especially after his brother Godfrey’s death made him king – a title he could not possibly hope to enjoy back in Europe. He was one of the most accomplished commanders in the crusade, winning control of the principality of Edessa by adroit diplomacy and an expedient marriage to an Armenian noblewoman; she has not been summoned here to join him as queen, her lineage now being a great deal less use to his ruthlessly pragmatic nature. Indeed, the king keeps relatively few women of any sort at court, though he does have an entourage of handsome young noblemen who have provoked their own sort of whispered comment. He has no children, and prefers the company of other knights. It is, paradoxically, that lack of religious devotion which has made him such an effective king for the Holy Land. He views the expansion of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem in terms of simple military strategy, and without any encumbering need to observe pieties, platitudes, or the solemn pronouncements of puffed-up and perfumed clerics. Baldwin is a warrior, plain and simple. Despite all their efforts, nobody has yet succeeded in stopping him.</p><p><em>A lesson we would be wise to take to heart. </em>A chill travels down Andromache’s spine as she steps forward and bows deeply. “Your Grace. It is good of you to receive us so – ” <em>Promptly </em>isn’t exactly the word, but at least it’s the same day they arrived. “Graciously.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Baldwin extends his hand to be kissed, and Andromache notices that he’s wearing a golden ring set with a black stone. It’s possibly a coincidence, but the resemblance to the Ring of Solomon is undeniable, as if he’s just keeping this as a placeholder until he gets the real one. “I apologize for the delay in my attendance upon you, but I was examining a rather interesting specimen. Enlighten me as to your names, Lady…?”</p><p>“Andromache. This is my companion, Lady Quynh, and our cohort, Alimayu Negasi.”</p><p>“Andromache? A Greek, then?” One of Baldwin’s pale eyebrows raises inquisitively. “A servant of Alexios Komnenos from Constantinople, perhaps?”</p><p>Given the delicate relationship between the Byzantine Greek empire and the Western Latin crusader kingdom, even if they are both nominally Christians, Andromache isn’t sure whether to claim this as an opportune backstory or not. “I am not a servant of Emperor Alexios, my lord,” she says, which is the truth. “I wish – ” and here she loads her voice with the same spell of compliance that Quynh used to bewitch the guards and finagle their entrance – “to know what you know about the Ring of Solomon, and what you have done in service of that aim.”</p><p>She waits for it to take hold, for Baldwin to answer, but instead he makes a slight gesture with the ring-wearing hand, as if to swat aside a troublesome fly. “I beg your pardon, Lady Andromache,” he says placidly. “I cannot have heard correctly. You wish what?”</p><p>Frowning, Andy glances involuntarily back at Quynh, as if asking her to try it just in case she made a mistake. But she didn’t, she’s used that spell thousands of times before to get people to cough up important information; it’s much easier and more humane (not to mention more accurate) than torturing it out of them. Baldwin is looking at her with a slight amused smile, waiting for her to try again. “Yes?” he prompts. “What is it?”</p><p><em>There’s something wrong here. </em>Andromache looks at his ring, and her stomach drops. It’s not <em>The </em>Ring, as she would know it the instant she set foot in this chamber otherwise, but it’s certainly decently powerful. Baldwin is obviously an ordinary human, but that is real magic, and he just used it to knock aside one of her spells without breaking a sweat. “Your Grace,” she says, feeling her heart start to pick up pace. “Where did you get that?”</p><p>“Oh, you are admiring my trinket?” Baldwin raises his hand and turns it, letting the black stone catch the light. “A gift from a friend of mine. Perhaps you can tell me more?”</p><p>Realizing on that very instant that this is a trap, Andy whirls on her heel and grabs for Quynh and Alimayu, but Baldwin makes another sharp gesture, and the doors of the throne room slam shut, the bar ramming in with a boom. “I confess,” he goes on, pacing nearer, unhurried and elegant as a tawny lion, “I was skeptical of the idea of performing <em>magic</em> at first. But I find that it is a useful weapon to have in one’s arsenal, especially in ruling a city so prone to upheaval as Jerusalem. Just think how much easier the crusade would have been, if we knew about this beforehand. The Ring of which you speak – I am indeed familiar with it, Lady Andromache. Who can it be due to more rightfully than me, Jerusalem’s king even as Solomon was? If you know of it, you are well advised to say so now.”</p><p>Alimayu throws a wild look at Andy, clearly demanding to know if she was aware that Baldwin could use magic prior to sending them in here. No, no, she didn’t, and that is a major (and hopefully not unforgivable) mistake. Quynh seems stymied, her lips white, struggling for a backup plan. She takes a step, preparing to attack, but Baldwin jerks the ring at her, and she is forced to her knees by a mighty invisible hand. “I am told,” he goes on pleasantly, “that this ring contains a captive djinn – they are customarily bound to lamps or rings or other portable items, eternally enslaved to serve the will of the human master. Do you wish me to summon this spirit more fully and explore what it is capable of, or to answer my questions?”</p><p>“Where’s my cousin, you Frankish bastard?” Alimayu, displaying considerable if deeply ill-advised bravery, charges at Baldwin directly, and is flicked aside like a leaf, crashing into the dais and landing with a groan. Andy runs to help him up, feeling deeply guilty for assuming that they could just walk into the palace and manipulate Baldwin any way they pleased – her old arms-master back in Scythia, the one she can barely remember, would have flayed her alive for such arrogance. <em>Never enter your enemy’s territory until you are ready for the fight. </em>The first and most elementary rule of warfare, and she’s forgotten it. This is unconscionable.</p><p>“What – ” Her voice is tight. She <em>could </em>fight Baldwin, but it would get very messy, and there still might be a chance to salvage this. “What do you want to know, Your Grace?”</p><p>“For one thing.” Baldwin pins her with those ice-cold eyes, then gestures toward an alcove, and something comes rattling out. “Whether you and your ilk are responsible for this.”</p><p>It’s a tall iron cage, and it contains – Andromache feels her gorge rising, and struggles to swallow it down. If she was in any doubt that it was ghuls stalking the streets of Jerusalem, she is no longer. The rotting corpse is fleshless, reeking of dust and decay and grave mold, bones yellowed and sinews ancient as blackened leather, a staring skull with empty sockets, its jaw snapping in search of warm human flesh to devour. It snarls and claws and struggles against the bars, and Baldwin regards it with entirely merited revulsion. “We captured this creature and some of its fellows attempting to attack the palace last night. But surely you, a witch turning up so expediently to ask me about the Ring of Solomon, have nothing to do with that?”</p><p><em>“What?” </em>It’s Quynh who speaks, but it’s Andy’s own thought as well. The ghuls are attacking the <em>palace? </em>This makes <em>no </em>sense. Unless they’re stupid enough to think that Baldwin’s ring is the Ring of Solomon, but while it’s clearly considerably powerful, anyone desperate (or insane) enough to send ghuls after the <em>King of Jerusalem </em>is unlikely to make that mistake. Andy can understand that Baldwin would be angry about being targeted by corpses, which explains something of his hostile attitude toward them, but – <em>what?</em></p><p>“We didn’t send that creature, Your Grace,” she says, trying to look away from its nightmarish face. “We don’t know who’s summoning them. We had heard that they were at large in the streets, but we did not think that they would – ”</p><p>“You don’t know who is bringing these abominations into my city?” Baldwin’s gaze is almost as hot as an ifrit’s. “Menacing us with dark magic?”</p><p>Despite herself, and while she can understand his desire to get to the bottom of this, Andromache’s irritation flares. “Ghuls are made from corpses,” she snaps. “Why are there <em>quite </em>so many corpses in this city’s recent history? Perhaps if you and your zealot crusader brethren hadn’t slaughtered everyone when you sacked and burned the place, you wouldn’t be dealing with the consequences!”</p><p>Baldwin starts into a heated reply, then stops. “Fair,” he says tersely. “The massacre of the citizens was… excessive. Which was <em>why </em>I gave orders it for it not be repeated in Acre, but the Genoese and Pisans saw fit to defy me. You seem to be well-informed on this monster, Lady Andromache. You will tell me everything, or – ”</p><p>At that moment, the ghul howls madly and throws itself against the cage, gibbering and spitting, shedding gobbets of rotten flesh everywhere, and everyone takes a step backward. Then there’s a knock on the door, and a voice calls, “My lord? Are you in there? I have them.”</p><p>Baldwin tears his eyes off the ghul and turns to the door. “Yes,” he calls back. “Come in, Stephen.”</p><p>With that, the door opens, and the man that parades inside is known to Andy, Quynh, and – clearly – Alimayu all at once. He’s dark-haired, pale, and smug-looking, with an eminently punchable face, and he’s not alone. His companions are dragging in a group of frightened-looking African merchants, and Stephen – this would be Stephen de Méric, the mercenary who has been looking for the Ring of Solomon on Baldwin’s auspices – makes a triumphant flourish. “These are them, Your Grace. I can vouch for the fact that I know them myself.” To one of the men, he adds viciously, “You shouldn’t have stolen my supper that night at the tavern, should you? Eh, you black heathen bastard? No drunken Sebastien le Livre here to save you now!”</p><p>“What the – ” Alimayu looks at the merchants, then whirls on Andy and Quynh. “Those are my kinsmen,” he says. “The rest of my traveling party from my village! Bekele – ” he addresses the man who Stephen just insulted – “what’s going on? Why – why do they – ”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Bekele, as his name must be, looks ill. “It’s the Frank who we had the fight at the tavern with – he and his men broke down our door and dragged us here, we don’t know – ”</p><p>At that point, he sees the ghul and makes an aghast sound, as Alimayu takes a frantic step toward his captured companions and Stephen de Méric and company reach for their swords. Caught between a henge of steel on one side and Baldwin and his merciless magic ring on the other, Alimayu stops short, though the look of betrayal he throws at Andromache and Quynh is scorching. Andy winces. They’re not responsible for how completely this has gone to hell, but they aren’t innocent either. And the only reason for Méric to have been sent after Nile’s entire family and traveling party is because –</p><p>“Let us introduce a note of clarity into these regrettable proceedings.” Baldwin’s voice cracks out like a whip, cutting over the ambient chaos of the room, and silence falls in an icy shroud. “It is our present and most reliable information, thanks to our allies elsewhere, that the current bearer of the Ring of Solomon is a young woman named Nile Nesanet, kin to this band of rabble. Whether she is likewise responsible for the attacks in Jerusalem we have not been able to discern, but the Ring would certainly give her the power to carry them out, and we do not find it unbelievable that she would have the desire to plot against us – whether on her own accord, or on behalf of the masters pulling her puppet strings. Therefore, unless Nile comes to us immediately and surrenders the Ring to our rightful possession, her kinsmen will all be put to death without delay. That includes this one. Seize him.”</p><p>Stephen de Méric, looking only too glad to oblige, lunges at the stunned Alimayu, who reacts an instant too late, tries to draw his dagger, and has it knocked out of his hand with a single punch. Méric’s henchmen swarm on him, forcing him to his knees, as Quynh and Andy charge into the melee and everything devolves into an extended period of bloody mayhem. Andy is raising her hand to cast a killing curse – she doesn’t care if accidentally murdering the head of state in Jerusalem is seriously against their unofficial rules and would set off an even greater power struggle, she isn’t going to let herself be humiliated so badly, when –</p><p>There’s an explosion from the corner of the throne room, and something freezing cold and agonizing tears into Andy’s side, knocking her down with a scream of agony and burning through her like the poison of quicksilver. Quynh whirls around in horror and battles toward Andy, so intent on reaching her that she doesn’t even notice Méric’s incoming backhand. His fist catches her directly under the jaw and sends her flying. She crashes into a pillar with a sickening sound, head lolling, and doesn’t get up.</p><p><em>No. No, no, no. </em>Andy tries to move, but her limbs are leaden and blood is starting to pool on the floor beneath her. She is reduced to utter powerlessness, helpless to do anything but watch as Méric, breathless and snarling, forces Alimayu into the huddle of his fellows and presents them to Baldwin in an air of vindictive triumph. “Here, Your Grace,” he says, wiping a smear of blood off his mouth and spitting. “Call your allies.”</p><p>Baldwin regards the group of cringing captives with grim resolve. He doesn’t look like he’s taking particular pleasure in what he has to do, but it doesn’t stop him either. He takes hold of the ring, turns it on his finger three times, and calls in a ringing voice, “<em>Wahdeliadj!”</em></p><p>Just as Andy is trying to work out if this is a name, a spell, the captive djinn in the ring, or something else, a black cloud begins to pour into the throne room, covering everything in darkness as thick as midnight. Andy is still flattened in pain, Quynh remains unmoving, and it feels like the culmination of a particularly awful nightmare. She can sense a doorway opening in the air, and then something – some<em>one – </em>steps out of it, tall and terrible. At that, Andy recognizes it and the name. Wahdeliadj al-Barqan is the Black King’s right-hand demon, the lord of his ifrit and the chieftain of the Night Riders, and his fathomless, fiery eyes fix on her as she lies there, helpless and bleeding. A biting smile curls his lip. “Look,” he rumbles. “It is the witch who insulted me and my men so gravely, as we tried to capture the girl and the djinn in the first place. Perhaps I shall kill her as well, King Baldwin?”</p><p>“She is not part of my arrangement with King Barqan.” Baldwin spares Andy only half a glance. “I want Nile Nesanet. These are her kin. You nearly had her in your grasp. Send a message to the girl, wherever she might be hiding, that if she does not come and surrender the Ring to me at once, they will all be put to death without delay.”</p><p>Wahdeliadj pretends to consider that. It’s clear that <em>however </em>this has happened – the human king of Jerusalem forging an alliance with the Black King of the jinn, which means that Baldwin and Barqan have been in cahoots all along trying to get the Ring of Solomon – he’s not too overawed by the mortal ruler. “But of course, my lord,” he says, with oily deference. “Yet for these purposes, it would be best to transport the human prisoners to the stronghold of <em>my </em>king, the City of Carnelian. If Nile Nesanet already adventures in the realm of the jinn, she will find it easiest to travel there.”</p><p>Baldwin narrows his eyes at the imposing ifrit, alert to the possibility of a double-cross, even as Andy’s wounded brain scrambles furiously. Is <em>Barqan </em>responsible for setting the ghuls loose in Jerusalem, attacking Baldwin in case he was tempted to renege on this literally infernal bargain? The Black King is an obvious antagonist in these proceedings already, and the Night Riders haven’t been shy about doing whatever it takes to snatch up the Ring (foiled once, as noted, by Andy and Quynh themselves, which doesn’t promise pleasant treatment if they fall into their hands). Ghuls are certainly a favored weapon of the Banu Barqan. But Baldwin would have to suspect if that was the case, wouldn’t he? He doesn’t seem to have any idea who it is, and was asking if Nile herself was responsible. Who, <em>who, </em>is the third party here, who could be playing a game either to help or to hurt and to what purpose, Andy still can’t –</p><p>“What surety do I have,” Baldwin asks, “that even if Nile Nesanet comes to the City of Carnelian and delivers up the Ring of Solomon, that you will bring it back to me? Having the handover take place in your king’s city, and to have the hostages kept there as well, seems like a fine way to ensure that I never saw any of them again, and you then killed me for knowing of the plot.”</p><p>Wahdeliadj raises his stony brows, as if impressed by a dirt-blood’s political acumen. “I promise, King Baldwin,” he says, “so long as you wear that magical ring of your own, I will be compelled to return to you again. Does it please you? The djinn contained within it is of a particularly powerful family, and one that could stand humbling.”</p><p>Baldwin lifts his hand again, studying the ring contemplatively. Then he says, “Its powers please me, yes, but I have read the grimoires. I am well aware that I should place no ultimate trust in the jinn, especially ones with the evil reputation of the Banu Barqan. So let us add some extra surety. Djinn of the Ring, if the Night Riders do not uphold their end of the bargain and bring the Ring of Solomon to me as soon as Nile Nesanet yields it up, I wish that they be all immediately tormented for a thousand years in hell.”</p><p>Wahdeliadj’s jaw drops, and Andy, even otherwise numb from shock and blood loss, feels her stomach turn. There’s a spectral howl from Baldwin’s ring, as if the sheer violent magnitude of this wish causes the trapped djinn huge pain to grant, but Baldwin is its master – indeed, the human king of Jerusalem, just like Solomon was – and it has no choice but to do so. <em>“Yes, my master,”</em> a disembodied – and oddly familiar, for all that Andy has never heard it before – voice groans. <em>“It will be as you command.”</em></p><p>“There.” Baldwin turns back to Wahdeliadj and smiles. “All arranged.”</p><p>The ifrit’s gloating smile is gone. His face is black with rage and the knowledge that he’s been outfoxed – never a safe thing for the leader of the Night Riders – and he stamps over to Alimayu and his terrified companions, clicks his fingers, and ravels them up in heavy chains. He clicks his fingers again, floating them into midair, and in the next instant, they vanish through the doorway – presumably to the City of Carnelian, King Barqan’s seat of power. If Nile does go there trying to save her fellows, they’re going to die. They’re all going to die. Nile and Yusuf and Nicolò and anyone who goes with them.</p><p>Andromache lies prone on the floor, stunned by the weight of her failure, all the pieces she has not seen, her hubris and her impulsiveness. <em>You knew. You knew all along there were parts of this situation you did not understand, and now look where it’s gotten you. They will die, but you will have killed them.</em></p><p>Baldwin regards her and Quynh for a long moment, as if deciding whether it is worth the effort to finish them off. Then his eyes flick back to the ghul, almost forgotten in the uproar but still moaning and banging wildly against its cage. “If you know how to destroy that creature,” he says crisply, “I suggest you do so. Farewell, Lady Andromache.”</p><p>With that, he turns and sweeps across the throne room, which is still black as pitch even though Wahdeliadj is gone. Then he makes a brief gesture at the cage. The bars split open and the ghul clambers out, slavering and starving in its single-minded need to feed. Baldwin lets himself out and slams the door, and the rotting corpse revolves toward Andy and Quynh. Quynh is stirring faintly, but still isn’t awake, and Andy is flat on her back with a wound the likes of which she hasn’t taken in thousands of years. Her mind is utterly blank with terror.</p><p>Just as she’s convinced that this is it, they’re dead, there’s another explosion from across the way – from someone hidden in the tapestries – and the ghul staggers, more gobbets of rotting flesh raining everywhere. It takes a step, is pummeled by another shot – a crossbow, Andy thinks, though it’s hard to be sure – and a shadowy figure, a man, sprints out. In the merciful interlude of time that this has bought him, as the ghul revolves on the spot, gibbers, and disintegrates, he grabs Andy with one hand and hauls her to her feet. Something about the pale eyes are familiar. But before she can get the name to her lips, he runs to Quynh, grabs her up with the other hand, and says tersely, “We really should get out of here.”</p><p>“You – ” Andy recognizes him, she knows she does, but it still isn’t connecting. She’s struggling hard enough as it is to maintain consciousness. “Who are – ”</p><p>“My name is Sebastien le Livre.” He whirls behind them, fires one more bolt into the surging darkness, then slams into the door, breaking it open, as they flee into the halls of the haunted palace beyond. “But you can call me Booker.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One heartbeat – two, three, ten heartbeats – pass in which Nicolò has time to hear his words hanging in the air, and wants more than anything to bite them back, to have never spoken them at all, but it is too late. Yusuf is staring at him, the fevered moment of their intimacy crumbles to ash, and Nicolò swears that he feels a frigid wind sweep through the warm night air. He takes a step backward, cursing himself for being so stupid as to kiss the djinn in the first place. It’s not like him, he did not mean to overstep, he knows that Yusuf loves bloody Prince Sa’id and he has been <em>trying </em>to make himself remember that – but then there was that ride together on the carpet, and his increasing worry when Yusuf did not come back from his great-grandfather’s throne room, and then seeing him there, looking so bruised and forlorn –</p><p>Nicolò normally keeps himself on brutal rein, never does anything on impulse, because he is so frightened of making a mistake or hurting someone or surrendering to some bloodthirsty instinct that cannot be taken back. This was not that, this came from a place of wanting to give into something sweet and real and good, but perhaps he is not allowed to do that either. The expression on Yusuf’s face seems to be proof enough. The silence lingers, heavy and ugly. Then Yusuf says again, in a too-calm voice, “How did you know that the Ring wasn’t in Petra?”</p><p>“Fuck.” Nicolò can’t say anything else. It doesn’t even occur to him to scramble for a lie. This is what he gets for dropping his guard like that, in the heat of the moment. “Look,” he says, discovering all at once that his contorted justifications, his elaborate rationalizations, his clever backup plans – everything that he told himself to explain why it was a good idea to go behind Yusuf’s back and make an arrangement with the witches – feel like absolutely nothing. “The other night, when I left Cairo after our – our conversation in your room – I swear, I didn’t ask for them to come. They found me. The witches who stole my book, they – ”</p><p>“Andromache and Quynh?” Yusuf stares at him. “What do you mean, they found you?”</p><p>Nicolò hesitates, wondering if he’s really going to divulge the precaution that he took in case Yusuf’s family couldn’t be trusted – it remains objectively the case that he has the right to protect himself, he didn’t have to throw himself on the mercy of his enemies. But he can’t hold back in front of Yusuf’s mute, stunned, half-angry, half-heartbroken expression. “They came to me, out in the desert,” Nicolò says in a rush. “They wanted to know where you were, where Nile was, but I didn’t tell them. They knew – well, they knew a lot, they’ve been keeping an eye on this for a while. I offered to pass on whatever I learned from this visit to the City of Iron, in exchange for them helping me with the situation back in Jerusalem. With Rabbi Samuel and the… never mind. I just didn’t trust that your brothers wouldn’t betray me the instant we were done, and I… I haven’t actually told the witches anything yet. But they did say that they’d looked, and the Ring of Solomon wasn’t in Petra, and they… they gave me this.”</p><p>With that, he fumbles out the iron ring. “I’m supposed to put it on and call them when I have something to say,” Nicolò goes on wretchedly. Any delusion that he could have pulled this off, that he would ever do anything but confess this entire half-baked plot in a fit of guilt, has gone up in smoke, and he isn’t sure if he even has enough pride to regret it. “I didn’t. But I should… I should have told you. Before we left Cairo, and certainly before you went to see King Zawba’ah. I feel like it’s my fault that you were hurt, and – ”</p><p>“It is,” Yusuf says flatly. “At least partly. So why did you do that?”</p><p>“I just… like I said.” Nicolò can’t bear to keep looking at him, but dropping his gaze feels cheap, so he doesn’t. “I was afraid your brothers would double-cross me. A vampire going to the City of Iron – if I’d just naively assumed that everything would be fine and your people would welcome me with open arms, when I had been told over and over that it was dangerous – as long as I had some other plan to keep myself safe – ”</p><p>Yusuf flinches. He still hasn’t shouted, which almost makes it worse. At least an argument would be familiar ground, a comforting and expected reflex to being betrayed – which Nicolò set up the opportunity to do, even if he did not carry it through. <em>Is </em>it betrayal? Strictly speaking, they’re still not allies. They’re barely even friends. But that kiss, whatever else it has wrought, is proof even to their stubborn selves that their enmity is only a fragile façade papered over something much deeper and more powerful and far more dangerous. Nicolò has been denying it as hard as he can, but he’s not <em>oblivious. </em>He is painfully aware that if he’s not fighting with Yusuf at all times, he is going to find it very hard to resist kissing him again, Prince Sa’id or no Prince Sa’id, and that –</p><p>Well. It just seems like the kind of complication that this entire mess should avoid, not least Nicolò himself. After all, if this mad scheme <em>does </em>work, he will finally shed the curse of vampirism and return to his mortal life, which he has insisted over and over is the only thing he wants. Back to humanity. Back to Genoa. Far away from troublesomely handsome dark-eyed djinn and their quick tongues and obnoxious brothers. Far away from ravishingly magical cities and flying carpets and all the wonder and beauty that he has found here, even as much as the aggravation. Far away from Maryam, who took him in and cared for him and even rather overtly arranged for him to share Yusuf’s room. Far away from Nile, her shy smile, her quiet bravery. That is – that <em>is </em>still what he wants, isn’t it? It has to be. Nicolò has been so desperately unhappy and so alone for so long that it is hard to register anything else. But this –</p><p>“Well,” Yusuf says at last, when the silence has grown weighty enough to drag Prometheus down. <em>Stealing fire from the gods, </em>Nicolò thinks, and wonders if he was some sort of distant forefather to the jinn. “I suppose I didn’t exactly trust my brothers either.”</p><p>His voice isn’t warm, and he doesn’t seem thrilled by this revelation, but there is an air of almost abject relief – he clearly thought that whatever Nicolò had to confess was far worse. There’s another silence. Then he goes on, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think they’re going to betray you. Which is something of a surprise to me as well. But our mother told us to present a united front and… they <em>are </em>family, however aggravating. I just wish you’d told me about Petra.”</p><p>“I should have.” Nicolò takes a step, moving closer, the two of them once more drawn into intimate orbit, unable to take their eyes off each other. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Yusuf jerks his head in half a nod. If they’re going to avoid kissing again, if Nicolò is going to respect the fact that this man is not his and will never be, he needs to do something, say something else, break the spell somehow. They stop a few feet away from each other, on invisible lines marking the distance they <em>must </em>keep, in sharp contrast to their too-close arguments, always a breath from something quite different. The sound of the jungle at night filter through the balcony doors, the dark sky lit up with distant magical flashes. Then Yusuf says, “If you’re going to make up for it, vampire, you owe me a few truths of your own. Why do you want the Ring?”</p><p>“Because I don’t want to be one.” After so long trying to hold it back, it spills out of Nicolò, as painfully as if dragged through shards of glass, the broken window over the altar in his church in Acquasanta, the night he was attacked. “This – <em>thing</em>, this creature, it isn’t me! I hate everything about it! I’ve lived for forty years, if you can even call it that, struggling to keep hold of myself, of anything I was before this happened to me, and I don’t even know if that was anything worthwhile! I was a failure of a man, a failure of a son, a failure of a priest, and then I was turned into a monster! And if the Ring of Solomon can take that away from me – well, I might still be a failure, but at least I won’t – I won’t be <em>this!”</em></p><p>His voice is cracking and choked with passion, even as he can’t drag his eyes up to meet Yusuf’s, too terrified of what he’ll see in them: pity, disdain, revulsion, even cruel amusement. Or worse, none of the above. “I just want it to stop,” Nicolò says, staring at the floor. “I want peace. I want to rest. I want to sleep. It’s stupid, but there you have it.”</p><p>The silence crackles. Then Yusuf says, “It’s not stupid. And for what it’s worth, you’re the last thing from a monster.”</p><p>“What?” That startles Nicolò into looking up. “I’m a <em>bloodsucker. </em>You’ve taken care to point it out. I have to <em>drink from people </em>to survive!”</p><p>“Yes,” Yusuf says, “and it’s clear to everyone that you hate it and try to avoid it as much as you possibly can. You’ve been a pain in the arse to me, though it’s not as if I haven’t done the same in return. But you’ve been nothing but gentle and courteous to my mother, to Nile, to anyone who didn’t outright attack you first. Mama called you a <em>nice Italian boy, </em>I told her that she was wrong, but… I’m learning that my mother is usually right about things. For what it’s worth.”</p><p>“She – she said that?” Nicolò can’t say why it matters so much that Maryam al-Katibi should have a favorable opinion of him, but it does, and it twists in his heart before he can even pretend to bat it away. “Well, I don’t – I’m not sure that I’m nice, but – ”</p><p>“You’re not,” Yusuf says. “You’re – you’re kind. That’s different.”</p><p>Nicolò, who was about to be relieved to be insulted, is caught on the hop. He feels as he did when Rabbi Samuel suggested that he might not be cut off from God: disbelieving, wary, unwilling to believe it, because it hurts too much to hope. Well, he thinks dazedly, this conversation has taken a turn. They’re still poised three feet away from each other, hands clenched at their sides, a pair of soldiers meeting in the middle of a battlefield for parley. The racks of candles sway overhead in their iron rings, casting dancing light on the bedroom, their shadows twisting out from their feet, almost touching. Nicolò burns to ask more about Prince Sa’id, but that is not his right. Yusuf did kiss him back, but that means nothing. He’s been through enough pain today, in large part thanks to Nicolò. He doesn’t need this too.</p><p>Just as Nicolò has committed to this noble ideal, however, Yusuf has to go and overturn it like a spilled apple cart. “Why did you leave our house that night? Run off into the desert and meet the witches at all? I don’t see why there was any reason for you to do that.”</p><p>Did you not, Nicolò thinks. Did you <em>really</em> have no idea? Perhaps he can’t blame Yusuf for not reading his mind, but he wants to seize the djinn and demand if it was <em>that</em> much of a mystery. He chews it over. Then he says, “You told me that Prince Sa’id was none of my business.”</p><p>“Well, he’s – he’s not really, he’s just – ” Yusuf is <em>still </em>managing to look confused, and Nicolò truly does want to throttle him. “Why would <em>he </em>be why you ran away?”</p><p>Nicolò can’t get the words out, but the silence that falls between them, weighted with the sum total of their interactions from the very moment Yusuf leaped on top of him in the alley, is its own answer of sorts. There’s a further instant of lightning-struck silence. Then Yusuf says, sounding indeed as if he has been strangled, “Wait, you can’t – you don’t – <em>you </em>don’t – ?”</p><p>“Is it so unbelievable?” Nicolò keeps his eyes on the ceiling, the floor, the balcony, absolutely anywhere except Yusuf’s face. As soon as he’s asked the question, it sounds singularly idiotic. Yes, <em>yes, </em>of course it is bloody unbelievable, but Nicolò still tries to finesse it. “I know we’re not friends, not exactly, but I thought we were together. In working on this, at any rate,” he hastens to add, lest Yusuf draw any incorrect conclusions. “However we got that way, we… we could be. Then you didn’t tell me and – ”</p><p>“Then you ran away and tattled on us to the witches, so you don’t get to act like – ”</p><p>“Stop!” Much as he was yearning for a good old-fashioned argument to get them back on clear footing, Nicolò finds all at once that he has no heart for it. He breaks the cardinal rule, the invisible wall, and steps forward, gripping Yusuf’s arms. Yusuf starts, but doesn’t pull back. Instead he too moves closer, drawing them back into alignment, foiling all their efforts to pretend even remotely that they still hate each other, and then –</p><p>Nicolò would like to note for the record that this second kiss is – he thinks – not his fault. He’s fairly confident that Yusuf initiates it, at any rate, though it’s all gotten so tangled up that he can’t be certain. When it finally breaks apart, in a breathless muddled mess of hands and mouths and gasping, they have ended up on the enormous bed, Yusuf underneath him and his fingers toying at the laces of Nicolò’s tunic, and both of them experience a brief and total moment of panic. They say in unison, “We shouldn’t – we need to think about – ”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Nicolò says, for approximately the eighty-seventh time that night. “Sa’id – ”</p><p>Yusuf groans. “For the love of Allah, will you <em>please </em>stop talking about him?”</p><p>Nicolò is surprised (and dangerously hopeful) that Yusuf doesn’t seem in any hurry to insist on his exclusive love for the prince, but they have enough going on. They’re still stuck in the City of Iron, they just hashed through a betrayal and then started kissing (twice), neither of them have any idea where they stand now, and there’s no guarantee that Abdallah ibn Ja’far or some other outraged lackey won’t come bursting through the bedroom door to chastise Nicolò for taking liberties with the locals. He’s still a vampire, after all, and he has just been passionately kissing King Zawba’ah’s (even presently in the doghouse) great-grandson. There might be dungeons for this sort of thing. Silver chains. Whips and flays. Jesus, what a night.</p><p>“We need to think about this,” Yusuf goes on. “If the Ring of Sulaiman is lost – or if the Night Riders have it – then we’re obviously in a world of trouble. I don’t know if we should stay here or not. It might be safer, assuming my great-grandfather doesn’t murder me.” He utters a humorless laugh. “But we can’t just sit here and do nothing. So if we need to escape – ”</p><p>“Escape? From <em>here?” </em>Nicolò does a double take. It is hard to imagine that any fortress could be more formidable than the City of Iron. <em>“How?”</em></p><p>“I don’t know.” Yusuf’s mouth presses into a grim line. “But I have a proposition. A business proposition,” he rushes to add, lest their still far-too-compromising position on the bed cause any misunderstandings. “We officially be allies. The two of us. We should have been before, if we weren’t so busy… never mind. I think my brothers will help us, even if they still want to retrieve the Ring for the Banu Zawba’ah. As for Nile – ”</p><p>“We can’t leave her behind,” Nicolò says. “Especially if she’s the one connected to the Ring.”</p><p>“I wasn’t going to suggest it.” Yusuf glances up at him dryly. “Besides, I’ve become rather fond of the little human. I want her on our side, if nothing else.”</p><p>Those casual two words – <em>our side – </em>catch Nicolò in the heart. His stupid, impulsive decision with the witches very much did blow up in his face, and yet he is here, hearing Yusuf al-Kaysani say this, he knows what it’s like to have kissed him, and it’s ridiculous to pretend that his stomach doesn’t turn a complete and foolish flip. <em>Oh God, get hold of yourself. You don’t need to go from loathing the bloody djinn to longing over him all before moonrise. </em>“I agree,” he says. “I like her too. So we snatch her up, steal the carpet, and make a break for it without being shredded into a thousand pieces by the curse on the walls?”</p><p>“I need to think about that.” Yusuf looks pensive. “But we can’t waste time, not if the Ring is missing. And on that accord – ”</p><p>“What?” Nicolò says, when Yusuf doesn’t go on. “What were you going to say?”</p><p>“Just…” The tips of Yusuf’s pointed ears have turned a richer brown than usual. “You need to feed, there aren’t any humans here, you don’t like doing it on them anyway, and I had a thought. If you – well, you might be able to go out in the sunlight for longer too, and that could only help us. So if – if you wanted – ”</p><p>“What?” A small explosion goes off in Nicolò’s chest, and his voice rises to an undignified squeak. “Are you – are you asking if I want to feed on <em>you?”</em></p><p>This time, there’s no mistaking it, Yusuf flushes furiously and looks away. “It was just an idea. But if you’re so repulsed by it, then – ”</p><p>Nicolò chews his tongue. He has been unable to get the thought of Yusuf’s blood out of his head since the first time he inadvertently tasted it during their fight in Jerusalem, and <em>repulsed </em>is the last thing he feels about possibly being allowed to make a more in-depth exploration. But this is the last way to stop their tangled relationship from becoming even more tangled, and Nicolò isn’t sure that he’s able to do this without completely embarrassing himself. Yusuf is theoretically correct that drinking a djinn’s blood, creature of light and air and fire that he is, would help Nicolò stay out longer in the daylight, and that is a strategic advantage. If he has to duck into a cave every time the sun is too high, that would slow them down from whatever demented course of action they still have not entirely decided to pursue. It’s just good business.</p><p><em>(Oh, shut up, Nicolò di Genova, </em>a voice that sounds uncomfortably like his father jeers in his head. <em>You know it’s not just that.</em>)</p><p>Nicolò turns away. More to himself than Yusuf, he says, “Are you sure?”</p><p>“I didn’t foresee you confessing that you’d betrayed me and then me inviting you to bite my neck, no.” Yusuf’s eyes flash. “I must be out of my mind. Well, vampire? Yes or no?”</p><p>Nicolò bites his lip so hard that he (ironically) tastes his own blood. Sensing the prospect of a feed, his fangs have made themselves known, and he is quite sure that this is it, this is the moment when whatever fragile attachment they have built is blown out of the water. Yusuf will see them and recoil, or Abdallah ibn Ja’far will turn up and put a stop to this tomfoolery – or worse, none of that will happen, and <em>this </em>will happen, and Nicolò will be lost. Going too far with Yusuf – well, if it was just one thing, carnal lust, that would be bad enough, but not the end of the world. Nicolò has not spent almost forty years as a vampire in total celibacy, former priestly vows and heaping helping of Catholic guilt or otherwise. He has mostly avoided the brothels, but not entirely. He has mostly avoided the temptations of the flesh, one of the reasons he felt impelled to take holy vows in the first place, but not entirely. He has not simply fed and then gone away with <em>all </em>those pretty young men, much as he hates himself for it sometimes, but they are still human. They can be taken from and then forgotten. Yusuf is a djinn. They are as unlike as the sun and the moon. And this isn’t like that, Nicolò knows that already. This could never be forgotten.</p><p>Yusuf is still watching him. Waiting for an answer.</p><p>“I – yes,” Nicolò says, as brusquely as possible. He has been running low for so long, avoiding any instance where he might have to feed more than the bare minimum, that he can’t even imagine what it might feel like not to be hungry any more, drained, deprived. And he has never drunk a djinn’s blood properly before. He’s reasonably confident that it must work the same, it shouldn’t make him catch on fire or anything, but it’s still the unknown. It might be terrible. Or it might be wonderful. Just then, he isn’t entirely certain which prospect frightens him more.</p><p>Yusuf raises a hand, challengingly undoes the golden button at the base of his throat, and meets Nicolò’s eyes. “Tit for tat,” he says. “You swear on <em>your </em>blood that you’re not going to pull anything like this nonsense again, and I’ll let you do it.”</p><p>Jesus. <em>Jesus</em>, Nicolò isn’t strong enough to resist this. He would dare anyone anywhere to be strong enough to resist it.</p><p>“Fine,” he says. He bares his fangs and bites into the heel of his hand, drawing a thick bead of crimson blood. “I swear on my blood that I will not betray you in any shape or fashion again, and may the Almighty strike me down should I transgress this oath. There. Is that sufficient?”</p><p>Yusuf eyes him slowly, deliberately, eyes roaming over his body in a way that barely even tries to pretend it isn’t making measure of him, finally permitted to look without maintaining the flimsy pretense that he doesn’t care. Finally he says, “Yes.”</p><p>“Good.” Nicolò edges closer on the bed, takes Yusuf’s head between his hands – the contact thrills down both palms, through his arms, like a golden spear into his heart – and stares at him. “So I suppose this is my part to perform?”</p><p>Yusuf’s lips part. “Yes,” he says again. He seems to be having trouble catching his breath, mesmerized. “Don’t hurt me.”</p><p>It’s uttered almost plaintively, an afterthought, a marker of the immense trust that Yusuf is placing in him without a clearly articulated reason to do so – indeed, as Yusuf says, he must be out of his mind to be doing this, and yet Nicolò does not care about anything else. “Never,” he says, in the same tender whisper. “I would never.”</p><p>With that, he leans in slowly, moving his mouth close to Yusuf’s throat with an exquisite care that screams against the small part of him that wants to bite and claim and conquer. He feels the shudder that passes just beneath the surface of Yusuf’s skin, like water thawing deep beneath the ice, about to burst forth in spring flood, and that alone almost shreds his self-control. But he does not give into it, because if he <em>is </em>still truly a man, truly himself, and not a monster, he must be able to do this the way he wants, the way that is truest to him. It’s maddening, but exhilarating. He can <em>do </em>this. It is not ever something he has thought about in regard to being a vampire, at least never with any pride. He was afraid of embracing it at all, of ever being comfortable for a moment in his own skin. And this –</p><p>Nicolò penetrates Yusuf as gently as he can, sliding in the tips of his fangs, but Yusuf still flinches, and Nicolò holds him tenderly until he adjusts, moving deeper. He sucks lightly, drawing up a mouthful of warm black blood tinged with its fiery gold, its sweetness and heat and light, and has to work hard not to moan aloud. He is careful not to take more than he needs, to limit himself to a few swallows, though even that is so heavenly that he’s seriously afraid this could become a habit if he let it. He shouldn’t presume that Yusuf’s offer was extended indefinitely. This was a one-time thing, a gesture of trust to smooth over their heretofore-deeply rocky relationship, to help Nicolò gather his strength for whatever on earth it is that they’re about to do. He doesn’t know, but he isn’t sure either of them have known a thing this entire time. It’s almost comforting to think that while they might be starting from scratch, at least they are doing it as a team. It is foolish how happy that simple fact makes him.</p><p>Nicolò is still lost in the pleasure of union, not even drinking anymore, just resting with his mouth on Yusuf’s neck – the djinn himself has seemed in no hurry to pull away – when a sound at the door startles them both upright. Nicolò can’t exactly rip straight out, that would be painful (not to mention rude). And so they are left to be caught red-handed (or red-mouthed) as the door opens, Nile stares at the pair of them on the bed, Nicolò’s lips pressed to Yusuf’s throat, and says, “Am I interrupting something? I’m definitely interrupting something.”</p><p>“It’s – ” Nicolò’s voice is muffled, but he pulls back, snaps his fangs out of sight, and straightens up, as both of them endeavor with absolute futility to look as if there was nothing interesting happening here. He registers that Nile looks deeply rattled, is clutching a piece of parchment in her hand, and would not have ventured to find them unless it was urgent. Confusion and concern pierces through the fog of lust still clouding his higher faculties. “Are you all right?” He gets up, crossing the room to her. “What’s wrong? Did something – did some<em>one – </em>hurt you?”</p><p>“No.” Lips white, Nile thrusts the parchment at him. “My friends are going to die.”</p><p>***</p><p>Nile has been in a permanent stupor – whether from shock or disbelief or wariness or awe or wonder or fear or anything else – from the moment they flew into an honest-to-God whirlwind and the colossal magical city on the other side. Thus far, she’s been decidedly peripheral, which she didn’t mind because it gave her an opportunity to work out how she can possibly get the Ring of Solomon without anyone noticing. She’s obviously going to need magic, and that entails recruiting Yusuf, who still does have to help her if she uses her third wish on him. If she was painstakingly careful with the wording, covered all the contingencies, closed all the loopholes, she <em>could </em>do it, but she can’t just waltz in with the Ring and start issuing pronouncements from on high. She wants to help the half-bloods, but while the jinn tribes might hate each other and cheerfully connive and plot at the other’s downfall, if another human, a new Solomon, turned up and tried to re-enact their age-old punishment, Nile has a feeling that would get put aside pretty quick. No better way to unite a squabbling people than to give them a common enemy. What is she even <em>doing? </em>One conversation with a maidservant and she thinks she knows the depth of injustice in this society or the sensitive nuances of its politics? She might mean well, but if she isn’t careful, she’ll make an even worse disaster.</p><p>Nile isn’t clear on what happened with Yusuf and his great-grandfather earlier, other than it doesn’t seem to have gone well. She’s glad that his brother pulled him out of there, and while the palace is still beautiful and unearthly, she’s lost her taste for sightseeing. She is sitting in her bedroom, which has a tall window which opens over a waterfall, fruit heaped in golden dishes, and gauzy silk curtains that swirl like the veils of a dancing girl. Someone has looked in to check if she needs anything, so for now, she’s still an honored guest. Then, just as she’s about to kick off her shoes and remove the fine jewelry and get some sleep, her room catches on fire.</p><p>Nile shrieks, leaping off the bed – her feet tangle in the covers, and she almost falls, but manages not to crack her head open on the marble floor. A pillar of pitch-black flame whirls through the air, and spills out to encircle her in a ring of fire. Just as she thinks that she’s about to be turned into a pile of ash, a sepulchral voice speaks her name from the maelstrom – <em>NILE NESANET! – </em>and shoots something at her.</p><p>Entirely understandably, Nile dodges away, so the folded parchment lands on the tiles. She stares at it, even as the black fire blows out as quickly as it came. Her bedroom looks distinctly different in its wake. The elaborate silk hangings and towering columns, everything worthy of Cleopatra, are still there, but they are tattered and torn, stained with soot, and the splendid view out the window, over the waterfall, is gone. In its place is a wall of rock, grey and featureless. Everything feels smaller and more cramped, dingy and darker, as Nile recalls Muhammad’s explanation from earlier. <em>It’s just – more real in some places than others. Not everything you see is actually there, and things that you thought you knew can change or disappear</em>. Is this what it’s supposed to really look like, or – ? What just – ?!</p><p>After waiting for a while does not herald the alarming reappearance of the fire tornado, Nile scoots across the floor and picks up the parchment, breaking the black wax seal. It’s heavy and hot in her hands, and it takes her several moments to read the words inside. It takes several moments after that for them to percolate. This must be some kind of – she doesn’t know, <em>something. </em>Some kind of trick or joke or trap. It can’t be – Alimayu and the others, they can’t –</p><p>Nile gets to her feet, still staring at the letter. She’s half-tempted to toss it onto the brazier and see if it burns, since this might be a clear attempt at luring her out of the dubious safety of the City of Iron. But she should make sure. Her cousin and the rest of them don’t know anything about this mess, or at least they were not supposed to. How can this be happening? Obviously she can’t let them die. They’re her village, her extended family – if they don’t come back from Jerusalem, it will destroy her entire community. But <em>how </em>could they have possibly fallen into the grip of <em>Barqan the Black King? </em>Did the Night Riders just cruise up to their rented house in the Holy City and snatch them? How would they <em>know?</em></p><p>Nile feels punched, stunned, spinning around and around as if she has flown back into the whirlwind. Barqan the Black is clearly a terrifying opponent, and the Night Riders have evidently figured out that it is easier to go for unarmed, unsuspecting relatives rather than for Nile herself. But she doesn’t have the Ring of Solomon! She doesn’t know where it is! She can’t trade it for her friends’ lives even if she wanted to, and letting Barqan get it seems very bad! Forget her exalted ideals of freeing the half-bloods. She’ll be lucky – they’ll all be lucky – if it doesn’t end up in the control of an actual archdemon.</p><p>After another moment, Nile lurches to the door, lets herself out, and runs down the corridor. Some of the flames in the brass salvers have gone out, casting odd, spiked shadows on the floor, and she reaches Yusuf’s room before she’s entirely conscious of having decided to go there. He is her only ally, magically bound or otherwise, and he likes her. She doesn’t <em>want </em>to use her last wish to order him to rescue Alimayu and the others (if they’ve even been captured, if this isn’t the aforementioned trap), but if she has to –</p><p>Nile is so distracted that she forgets to knock, and hence when she pushes the door open, she gets an eyeful of something that either she did not expect or she completely would have. Yusuf is there, on his bed, and he isn’t alone. Nicolò is sitting next to him – indeed, practically in his lap, and Yusuf’s hands rest on his back. The position of Nicolò’s head makes it clear that he’s either ripping out Yusuf’s throat – which doesn’t seem likely given as Yusuf appears to have no problem with this – or he’s, well, not doing that. He can’t be <em>feeding, </em>can he? Or kissing? Did they actually <em>talk </em>about something? Did they figure something out? This is almost more shocking than unannounced materializations of ominous parchments.</p><p>Nile clears her throat much louder than she needs to. “Am I interrupting something?” she asks. “I’m definitely interrupting something.”</p><p>“It’s – ” Nicolò pulls back in great haste and straightens up. “Are you all right?” He gets off the bed, crossing to her. “What’s wrong? Did something – did some<em>one –</em> hurt you?”</p><p>“No.” Nile thrusts the parchment at him. “My friends are going to die.”</p><p>“What?” Yusuf gets up as well, reaching out a hand in concern. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>“This.” Nile brandishes the parchment again. “It just arrived in my room via a column of huge black fire. I thought this was a place where the Night Riders couldn’t come?”</p><p>“They can’t. As far as I know.” Yusuf whisks the parchment from her and reads it. Whatever it was that he and Nicolò were just doing, he’s all business now. <em>“Barqan the Black </em>has captured your human relatives?! How is that <em>possible?!”</em></p><p>“I don’t know.” Nile is feeling the need to sit down, which she does, and Nicolò perches next to her in concern. “I was hoping you could tell me.”</p><p>Yusuf looks at the parchment again. “This phrase here – <em>by the authority of the king of the Holy Land. </em>They don’t – they can’t mean <em>Baldwin? </em>How on earth would he know about it?”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t he?” Nicolò counters. “If this is all happening in Jerusalem – ”</p><p>“Wait. Wait, wait.” Yusuf screws up his face in thought. “Prince Sa’id said that Baldwin did want it. In our conversation back at his court,” he adds, with a sidelong glance at Nile. For his part, Nicolò looks as if he wants to scream at the mention of Sa’id, but charitably holds his tongue. “So Sa’id knew somehow that the human king of Jerusalem was after it.”</p><p>“The witches.” Nicolò sighs as well. “Right. Damn it. They said in <em>our </em>conversation that they suspected Baldwin knew about it. He had an agent named Stephen de Méric tasked to find it for him. They thought it was Sebastian le Livre, but they still don’t know who he’s working for.”</p><p>Nile jumps at both of these familiar names, then frowns at the vampire. “I’m sorry, your conversation with the witches <em>when?”</em></p><p>“Unfortunately,” Yusuf says, voice clipped, “our blood-drinking friend was briefly making plans to two-time us. We were just sorting out that regrettable impulse, but never mind. Go on, Nile. So you’ve just received a mysterious letter claiming that your friends are held captive in the City of Carnelian, King Barqan’s great stronghold, and that if you do not turn up with the Ring of Sulaiman and hand it over as a matter of urgency, they will all be put to death in various horrendous ways. And this was done with the collusion of King <em>Baldwin?”</em></p><p>“It seems that way.” Nile stares down at the letter. “Yes.”</p><p>“Why would Baldwin and Barqan work together?” Nicolò breaks in. “Putting aside the fact that the human king somehow knows about the jinn world, what do they even have in common?”</p><p>“Aside from wanting the Ring of Sulaiman for themselves?” Yusuf says bleakly. “I could be wrong, but I suspect it turns, as ever, on power. Baldwin wants to shore up his uneasy rule over Jerusalem, and Barqan – Allah have mercy, he must want to challenge the Golden One for command of the city. Barqan and al-Maḏhab have hated each other since the dawn of time, and if the Black King can snatch the Ring from the Golden One’s very grasp, that changes everything. <em>He</em> could become High King of the Jinn, not al-Maḏhab. And that – ”</p><p>“Stop me if I’m wrong,” Nicolò says. “But that seems like a very <em>bad </em>thing.”</p><p>“Yes,” Yusuf admits. “None of us like al-Maḏhab, but at least he’s bound to the pretense of being a magnificent and munificent king who rules us with firm benevolence. It’s not always what he does, and he doesn’t need more power, but Barqan wouldn’t even bother with the appearance. If Sa’id did know about this alliance, no wonder he wanted the Ring so much. It would be a matter of life and death for all of us. If we did have to give it to him, even briefly – ”</p><p>Nicolò closes his eyes. “Right,” he says again. “Because Prince Sa’id is so very trustworthy.”</p><p>“He’s better than his father.” Yusuf bristles. “And <em>far </em>better than the Black King. So if it’s a matter of keeping Barqan off the Golden One’s throne long enough for Sa’id to succeed – well, we’ve made worse bargains in our lives. Besides, the three of us can’t go bursting into the City of Carnelian alone. We need help.”</p><p>“Which is,” Nicolò says, “also Sa’id?”</p><p>“I doubt he’d come in person, but – ” Yusuf stands up and starts to pace, as Nicolò watches him with such open longing in his eyes that Nile feels as if she is spying on something far more personal. “I could find a way to contact him. He wanted me to find it, he’ll help. Or – ”</p><p>“I could try the iron ring,” Nicolò interrupts. “I could call the witches and see if they’d be willing to help. They know you two, so – ”</p><p>“Even without incriminating information to pass along?” Yusuf arches an eyebrow at him. “Or is that something they’ll be willing to overlook?”</p><p>“Wait,” Nile interrupts, slightly dazed. “Yusuf, you just said something about the three of us bursting into the City of Carnelian. So we <em>are </em>going after my friends – ?”</p><p>“I assumed so, yes?” Yusuf looks surprised. “Unless you’d prefer we didn’t?”</p><p>“No, of course not! I want to save them! I just…” Nile trails off. “I just wasn’t sure that both of you were coming with me.”</p><p>“Of course we are,” Nicolò says. He reaches out as if to put an arm around her shoulders, thinks better of it, and pats her hand instead, his fingers cool and firm and comforting. “We’ll help you rescue them. I’m just not sure that involving Prince Sa’id is going to help <em>us.</em>”</p><p>“He has powers that I can’t even dream of,” Yusuf says. “And he has a very good reason not to let Barqan get away with this. So if I at least ask – ”</p><p>“At least let me try!” Nicolò stands up as well, with a bit of a jerk. His eyes snap with something halfway between anger and heartbreak. “At least let me <em>try </em>calling Andromache and Quynh!”</p><p>Yusuf and Nile both blink, taken aback by his vehemence. Yusuf opens his mouth, starts to say something, then thinks better of it. “Fine,” he says. “But they won’t be able to get in here. We’ll have to escape the city, and since we’re still held at my great-grandfather’s pleasure until I tell him where the Ring is – ”</p><p>“About that,” Nile says. “Where <em>is </em>it?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Yusuf’s mouth goes very grim. “Not in Petra, as I found out quite painfully this afternoon. Never mind. We’re not going to give it to the Black King, so it doesn’t matter. Just burst in, grab your humans, burst out. Easy.”</p><p>This is the least “easy” thing Nile has ever heard in her life, but no point saying so. She’s the last one left sitting, so she stands up with the other two. They may be shifty, supernatural, smitten with each other and clueless about it, stupid, stubborn, and otherwise seemingly impossible to deal with at any given moment, but they are here, and they’re with her, and she can’t help a flash of real and deep gratitude. “I – ” she says awkwardly. “Thank you. For this.”</p><p>“Of course.” There’s a look in Yusuf’s eye that she can’t quite read, but he nods. “We all have a good reason not to let this happen, and – well. You’re one of us too. So if this is it – ” He takes a deep breath. “Time to figure out how to <em>escape </em>this damn place. I may have some ideas, but both of you, stay close to me. If my theory is wrong – ”</p><p>“What theory?” Nicolò interrupts. “Exactly?”</p><p>“Never mind.” Yusuf strides to the bedroom door and pushes it open, into the dark hallway. Once more, it has changed, folding down, growing smaller, dimmer, carved in stone. As if the instant they step out, they may only find the wild. He bows, makes a flourish. “After you.”</p><p>And with that, they go.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is very late by the time the three conspirators – failing abominably at playing it cool, strolling nonchalantly down palace hallways only to dive out of sight when anyone comes near, Yusuf and Nicolò still hissing at the other that they are doing it wrong – finally sneak through a door, emerge onto an open-air parapet, and gaze at the City of Iron spread out below them. It does not look entirely how they left it. The mountains have changed shape, the jungle seems thicker and much darker, all the glittering golden spires have subsided to a more humble array of clay minarets, and the spectacular magic that sparkled through the place earlier has been reduced to a distant hum. It feels as if it should be easier to get out of here, but Yusuf isn’t fooled. That could be the exact reason it’s doing it.</p><p>Warily, he glances at his companions. Nicolò looks vivacious, fired up with life and energy, more animated than he’s ever seen the vampire. Perhaps that’s a side effect of Yusuf’s own blood, the way Nicolò might prefer not to be pale and dour if he could help it but refuses to do anything in that vein, literally. Nile looks nervous but dead-set, cold and determined. If they do somehow make it to the City of Carnelian, Yusuf might have to hold her back from charging in all by herself. Not as if that is going to be easy. He has no idea where they are relative to the human world, if they can find a hostile jinn king’s city uninvited, or if the fact that the Black King does want Nile to hand the Ring over means that he will helpfully provide a magical bridge. Either way, their escape from the palace has been easy. Too easy. A column of Barqan’s Fire appeared in Nile’s room, and nobody <em>noticed?</em></p><p>No need to borrow more problems. Yusuf turns to Nicolò. “Do you have the witches’ ring?”</p><p>Nicolò nods, digging it out, and Yusuf takes the opportunity to examine it more closely. It’s a simple iron circlet, enchanted with a basic summoning spell. It’s supposed to call the owners here in an instant from wherever they are in the world, but Yusuf suddenly changes his mind and thinks they should get all the way out of the city before they try. He reaches for it, putting his hand over Nicolò’s, and their eyes lock. Another surge of heat rushes through Yusuf’s body. He can’t forget the sensation of the feed, how he was expecting some sort of grotesque mutilation and instead got that deeply and unbearably sensual experience, a higher connection where their thoughts and bodies and very souls seemed shared, the strongest thread that could bind two separate beings. Nicolò saw into Yusuf’s mind, but Yusuf also saw into his, and –</p><p>It would be so easy to kiss him. Their faces are close together, the vampire is bewitchingly beautiful in the moonlight, and it would be the simplest of things. Then, perhaps –</p><p>“Brother! What on <em>earth </em>are you <em>doing?!”</em></p><p>The aghast whisper breaks the spell, making Nicolò and Yusuf spring apart, and he whirls around. For an instant he thinks it’s Nile, but she’s unlikely to be calling him “brother” (or, for that matter, be surprised if he accidentally hit Nicolò with his mouth), and his stomach drops into his foot. Muhammad is standing on the wallwalk, staring at them. At least he’s alone and hasn’t brought the guards, but so much for their great escape. Yusuf <em>knew </em>it was too easy!</p><p>“Muhammad,” Yusuf says as conversationally as possible, trying to pretend that he wasn’t just about to do any number of very, very forbidden things. “What a surprise to see you out here so late. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”</p><p>Muhammad gives him a cold fish-eye, indicating that the same can be asked of all of them. “Why are you sneaking around the City of Iron at this hour? You’ll get into trouble.”</p><p>“We already are in trouble,” Yusuf reminds him. “That whole proclamation about how we can’t leave until I give the Ring of Sulaiman to our great-grandsire?”</p><p>“And yet.” Muhammad folds his arms and glowers ominously. “That is indeed what you appear to be trying to do. Didn’t you <em>hear </em>me when I said the curse on the walls would tear you apart?”</p><p>“Yes, I heard you.” Yusuf doesn’t think there’s any point in playing stupid. “But technically you said it would only tear us apart if we <em>entered </em>the city without permission. You didn’t say anything about <em>leaving </em>it.”</p><p>Muhammad stares at him, then whoops a reluctant laugh. “You have a djinn’s mind for loopholes, little brother. Very well. Now come back, we’ll make a proper plan, and – ”</p><p>“Barqan the Black King has my family.” Nile speaks up most unexpectedly, stepping forward and confronting the eldest al-Kaysani son with shoulders squared and jaw set. “I got a message earlier tonight. King Baldwin of Jerusalem is in league with him somehow, and my family are all going to die unless I hand over the Ring of Solomon.”</p><p>“What? Barqan? Baldwin? <em>Bedfellows?” </em>Muhammad blinks. “How is that even possible?”</p><p>“We don’t know,” Nicolò cuts in, “and we aren’t intending to stand around hashing it out with you. We’re going to rescue Nile’s family, so – ”</p><p>“Not like this you aren’t.” Muhammad looks incredulous. “And if King Zawba’ah found out, after you already lied to him once – ”</p><p>Yusuf chews his tongue. What he is about to suggest might be heresy, but he would like to know. “Are we sure Great-Grandfather is actually that powerful?”</p><p>“You were the one who almost got killed by him this afternoon.” Muhammad looks even more thrown. “Are you really willing to take that risk?”</p><p>“Yes,” Yusuf says, stepping forward, as Nicolò and Nile catch at his arms. “I have a theory – which may be wrong, in which case I’ll pay for it later. But I don’t think King Zawba’ah is as powerful as he wants us to believe. I’m not sure he can even leave the throne room. Inside it, he can be as thunderous and impressive and almighty-ancient-djinn as he wants, lightning and hellfire and flame. But those were the abilities of our kind before Sulaiman cursed us. Even Zawba’ah is subject to that curse, no matter how much he resents it. Abdallah ibn Ja’far was in a haste to get out when he brought me in, like he knew that he’d be safe when he did. Zawba’ah can give a good show inside it, but outside, he’s just an old man. A four-headed one, perhaps, but still. You yourself said the city isn’t always real. And we got this far, and nobody caught us before you? No wonder you and the Banu Zawba’ah want the Ring so badly. Your power is nothing but smoke and mirrors. It looks good, it can create the illusion of it, but it’s dust.”</p><p>It’s hard to say who looks the most surprised. Muhammad opens his mouth, tries to think of a counterargument, and doesn’t succeed in coming up with one. “Even if that was true,” he starts at last, “<em>especially </em>if that was true, do you think that turning <em>away </em>from your own people is the right idea? If you hand over the Ring of Sulaiman to our most dangerous enemy – ”</p><p>“I’m not going to hand it over,” Nile says. “I don’t even have it. We were going to find some way to rescue my family and run, but not give it to Barqan.”</p><p>Yusuf has another theory about this, but he thinks it wise to keep his mouth shut for now. Spoken out loud, their plan to burst out of here and mount a three-person attack on all the hordes of the Black King does sound extremely stupid, but never mind that. They were going to call the witches, that makes five, and they are all appreciably powerful. Not enough to take on an entire army, but Andromache and Quynh dealt with the Night Riders back in the desert, and –</p><p>“You can’t go like this,” Muhammad says. “At least wait a damn moment.”</p><p>With that, he turns around, marches along the wallwalk, and vanishes down the steps, as Yusuf, Nicolò, and Nile exchange baffled glances. They aren’t sure if Muhammad has gone to yell for someone to arrest them, if they should make a break for it while his back is turned, if he’s actually going to do something helpful, or anything else. They don’t succeed in making a decision, possibly for the best, by the time they hear returning footsteps. Muhammad reappears, laden down with weapons, with Ismail hurrying along behind him, also resembling a large walking armory more than a djinn. Muhammad comes to a halt and decants his bounty with a clatter on the stones. “At least arm yourselves properly, you imbeciles.”</p><p>Yusuf and Nicolò exchange a look, decide against peering a gift horse too closely in the mouth, and start strapping on swords, bows, and daggers. Nile debates at length before selecting a simple knife and shortsword, but Ismail hands her a two-handed axe. “Here. Stick close to me, or hit anyone with that if you can’t. The edge is iron, it’ll take down any jinn who aren’t us.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Nile looks momentarily at a loss for words. “Are you – coming with us?”</p><p>Muhammad rolls his eyes. “Since my little brother is an idiot, knows absolutely nothing about the intricacies of jinn politics, or exactly how much trouble he will be in if he blows this, I suppose that yes, we are. Put those on, I’ll get the carpet.”</p><p>Everyone scrambles to finish arming up, Muhammad clicks his fingers and speaks an order in Daevic, and there’s a whoosh in the night air as their trusty steed swoops down from on high, uncurling its tassels to invite them onboard. Nile looks deeply unenthused at the prospect of a repeat encounter, clearly reminds herself that this is for her family, and steps on. Yusuf and Nicolò, clanking with steel, follow suit. If they end up in each other’s lap this time, they might accidentally decapitate each other, and for the first time in their fraught relationship to date, Yusuf might actually be sad if that happened. Ya Allah, this night makes <em>no</em> sense.</p><p>Muhammad and Ismail, also armed to the teeth, climb onto the carpet, as Ismail throws on the rest of the spare weapons. This, however, is when their luck finally runs out. A torch flares at the end of the wallwalk, a startled guard says, “What’s this?” and Muhammad, evidently deciding that he’s all in now and no room to pussyfoot, blasts off like Greek fire.</p><p>Yusuf and Nicolò instinctively snatch for each other as they soar skyward, toward the glittering stars, wind screaming against their faces and shouts spreading along the walls below. A hail of arrows pierce the cloud around them, missing them by a hair, and Yusuf’s magic flares to life. He spins around, facing backward, and raises both hands, conjuring a flaming shield around the carpet and its occupants, as more arrows scythe out of the night. It is a period of general chaos, Muhammad flying them like a racehorse and Yusuf working to repel their attackers, Ismail holding onto the weapons with one hand and Nile with the other, and Nicolò mostly just watching with a look of total admiration that makes Yusuf weak. But he can’t afford to get distracted by one stupidly handsome vampire. One arrow gets under his guard and leaves a punctured hole in the carpet; they aren’t human weapons, and he would be unwise to allow a repeat. He ups the ante as they tear through the clouds, glowing like a meteor, and finally the City of Iron falls away and the last arrows plunge endlessly into the jungle below. They fly crazily for a while after that, then finally pull up, as Muhammad steers them down into a small clearing among the trees. Panting, he shouts, “Everyone all right?”</p><p>Inventory is taken, limbs examined, and it is determined that except for scratches, scrapes, bruises, and other superficial damages, everyone is unharmed. They sit there wheezing, but they can’t stay here long. They’re still too close to the city, and jinn scouts can cover ground much faster than human ones. But they should be sufficiently far outside the ambit of its magic as to be free of any potential interference, and Yusuf turns to Nicolò. “Call the witches.”</p><p>“Witches?” Muhammad’s dark eyebrows leap up. “What witches? I didn’t sign up for witches.”</p><p>“They’re friends,” Yusuf says. “Sort of. They helped us out with the Night Riders, and Nicolò knows them better. Don’t you, dear?”</p><p>He didn’t mean to say <em>dear, </em>it just slipped out, but everybody already thinks they’re lovers, and Muhammad is too preoccupied by the witch revelation to make any snarky comments. Nicolò looks around, shrugs, then slips the ring onto his finger and turns toward the south. “Andromache and Quynh,” he says. “Andromache and Quynh. Andromache and Quynh.”</p><p>Presumably this is the charm they told him to say, but as they all sit tensely, awaiting the sudden materialization of two women, nothing happens. “Are you sure – ” Yusuf starts, unhelpfully.</p><p>“Yes,” Nicolò snaps. “I am capable of remembering simple instructions. Put it on, call to the south wind for them three times, and they’d come. If it doesn’t work, I don’t know why.”</p><p>They wait longer, just to be sure. Maybe they’re not far enough away from the City of Iron. Maybe something went wrong on the witches’ end. Maybe it was never supposed to work, but if Andromache and Quynh did want Nicolò to report to them, presumably they wouldn’t fob him off with a placebo. Or it did alert them, but not in the way Nicolò thought, and –</p><p>When it finally seems clear that no matter what the reason, they’re not coming, Nicolò sighs in resignation and takes the ring off his finger. “Well, that didn’t work. Sorry.”</p><p>“Do you think something happened to them?” Nile asks. “If they went back to Jerusalem, and King Baldwin is in league with Barqan the Black – ”</p><p>“Maybe.” Nicolò looks uneasy. “They were going to try to find out what he knew about it. Maybe they were there when your relatives were captured, and – well, we can’t do anything about that. Are we going on to the City of Carnelian or not?”</p><p>Muhammad looks relieved that they won’t be inflicted with the company of strange witches after all, but there’s no denying that they could have used the backup. “Let me think about this. If the Black King wants Nile to come, he might have left a path open, but that means we have to be twice as careful. If the way is closed, we could fly around the whole world and never find it. And it’s easiest to find the place with blood. You thought the City of <em>Iron </em>was dangerous? You haven’t seen anything.”</p><p>Everyone exchanges looks. Nile says, “Whose blood?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Whose blood?” she repeats. “If that’s what will bring us to the City of Carnelian, we should get on with it. I presume it’s mine, so – ”</p><p>She goes for the knife at her waist, and Yusuf and Nicolò reach forward at the same time, as if to prevent her from maiming herself before they can be sure. As before, Muhammad seems impressed at the little human’s nerve. “Yes. Most likely. But – ”</p><p>“All right.” Nile climbs off the carpet, stepping down onto the jungle floor, and looks censoriously at the boys when they fail to follow her. “Well? Am I going alone or what?”</p><p>With eyebrows raised, the three jinn and one vampire likewise exit the carpet, Ismail hauling the extra weapons. Nile draws her knife, holds out her left hand, and glances at Muhammad. “So I just… cut myself and call for him?”</p><p>“I suppose.” Muhammad looks anxious. “But once you do that, it’s too late to turn back. Just be sure that’s what you really – ”</p><p>Nile grimaces, shuts her eyes, and draws her blade smoothly across her palm, letting several scarlet droplets fall into the underbrush. “Barqan the Black,” she says. “Open the way to the City of Carnelian. My name is Nile Nesanet. You have called me. I have come to claim my kin.”</p><p>For a long moment, nothing happens, until it appears that this has gone the way of whatever mysterious alchemy failed to produce Andromache and Quynh. Then there’s a gleam under the dark vines where Nile’s blood landed, and Yusuf spots an elaborate brass handle. As they see when they step closer, it is attached to a heavy wooden trapdoor sunken in the earth. It was not there an instant earlier, and Nile eyes it. “Is that it?”</p><p>Muhammad mutters something under his breath, steps forward, and seizes hold of the handle, pulling the trapdoor up with a screech and a shower of dirt. A dark hole gapes wide, leading under the earth – the one place, of course, that jinn never want to go. All three al-Kaysanis take a reflexive step back, and Ismail eyes it with revulsion. “Down <em>there?”</em></p><p>“You don’t have to,” Nile says. “Nobody who doesn’t want to has to.”</p><p>There’s a pause. Yusuf is well aware that she could compel him, she could use her third wish. It could be argued that he owes it to her. Without him, Cousin Alimayu and the others wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. But Nile did put on the Ring and call for him, and she’s repeatedly chosen to stay where she is. Nonetheless, a human simply asking jinn for help, and the jinn granting it just because they care about her – that is not the way it has worked between their people for thousands of years, if ever. Before Sulaiman, jinn toyed with humans. After Sulaiman, humans enslaved jinn. Aid asked, freely given, from compassion and not coercion… it changes things in a way that a thousand Golden Ones or Barqans or Baldwins, any of the powerful men and jinn grubbing for it could never understand. It chokes Yusuf’s throat. Just then, no matter what it could mean for him or the Banu Zawba’ah or any djinn anywhere, he wants his other theory to be right. And that frightens him.</p><p>“I’m with you,” he says quietly. “Of course I am.”</p><p>“Me too.” Nicolò steps forward, as if to remark that <em>he </em>isn’t afraid of no hole in the ground. “Whatever you need.”</p><p>“We’re not letting Yusuf get into trouble,” Muhammad says. “Which he would inevitably do without us. And we’re not letting Barqan get the Ring of Sulaiman either. So…”</p><p>A communal pause is shared around them, everyone waiting for someone to change their mind, to jump on the carpet and zoom back to the comparative safety of the City of Iron, even if that involves a lot of angry royal guards. But nobody does. Nile takes a deep breath and lifts her foot over the trapdoor, setting it on the first of the spiral steps. Then the other. Head high, she starts the descent, and the four men – the four supernatural creatures, all of whom are far more powerful than her, and yet they are the ones in her wake – follow her down, down, down.</p><p>Even the hint of starlight from the surface quickly goes out. An unearthly blue glow seeps up, just enough to light the way down the endlessly descending stairs, so far that Yusuf fancifully thinks they must be going to the very center of the earth. The pit quickly gets larger as they go, until he can’t see the other side and is nerve-wrackingly conscious of the endless abyss that lurks just past their left foot at all times. Once Nicolò stumbles, kicking a bit of rock over the edge, and they all stare at it. Not even supernatural hearing can make out the sound of it hitting bottom. It was, if it was not clear, a <em>very </em>long way down.</p><p>“Jesus,” Nicolò mutters, backing up as Yusuf grabs for him; the idea of Nicolò going over himself gives him a cold grue. They keep descending, judging the size of the ever-widening sinkhole by sense and echo more than sight. Even Nicolò with his keen night vision can’t make out the exact dimensions, though he thinks it’s at least a hundred feet wide, an enormous cistern carved out beneath the surface. There are some caves like this, but Yusuf has never made investigation of any of them, and besides, this one is not natural. It is a doorway to the Black King’s realm.</p><p>The uneven stairway clings close to the wall, finally narrowing to a heart-pounding, barely-there ledge. At that, Muhammad insists on going first, so he and Nile awkwardly shuffle to exchange places, and he leaps across to more sure footing. “Now you,” he calls back. “Jump!”</p><p>Nile takes a deep breath, backs up as far as she can, and launches herself into a running start. Yusuf and Nicolò make identical choked sounds, as it evidently rasps on their nerves to see their human putting herself into such danger. But she makes it, and Muhammad pulls her behind him, then beckons for Ismail, who lands with a thump and a puff of rock dust. Finally, it’s just Yusuf and Nicolò left on the far side, and Nicolò regards the leap – not that far, and certainly not for a vampire, but out over absolute blackness – with a leery expression. “Kiss for luck?”</p><p>Yusuf makes another choked sound, this one sounding like a stepped-on bladder, and finds himself almost tempted to do it. “You’re fine. If Nile can do it – ”</p><p>“I know.” Nicolò crosses himself, winces but ignores it, and moves to get enough space to jump. It’s a perfect leap. Nothing wrong with that. But as he flies out over the edge – whether from an anti-vampire defense system, a hidden tunnel, a burst of magic, or anything else – a gust of wind roars out of nowhere and pummels him broadside. He turns a graceful somersault, looks alarmed, and plunges out of sight like a stone.</p><p><em>“NO!”</em> Yusuf’s scream is loud enough to echo, bouncing crazily around the pit, as if a thousand Yusufs are all screaming at once. He lurches to the edge, overcome with horror, staring down into the stygian black as if expecting to see Nicolò’s broken body sprawled out below. He’s a <em>vampire, </em>he can take worse falls than that – and yet, all rational thought has been knocked clean out of Yusuf’s head. He leaps before he even thinks about it, stampedes past Nile and his brothers, is prepared to keep running down miles and miles, as far as it goes. He doesn’t even care. Nothing matters except –</p><p>His feet hit ground. Mud, but solid. He stumbles, unwilling to believe it, and yet it seems indisputable that this is the end of the line. Still going haywire with terror, he screams, <em>“Nicolò!”</em></p><p>“I’m here.” A shadowed silhouette looms out of the darkness – Nicolò, looking muddy and sheepish but entirely unhurt. “It was barely fifteen feet. If I’d known that, I would have just jumped straight down here anyway. It’s fine, I – ”</p><p>He’s cut off as Yusuf throws himself into his arms, ignoring both the sting of wounded pride and the stares of Muhammad, Ismail, and Nile, who are speeding down the last steps just in time to appreciate their successful descent and the sight of Yusuf <em>actually </em>kissing Nicolò for – well, it’s too late for luck, but call it that anyway. Nicolò makes a startled but amused sound, does not attempt in the least to get away, and one hand floats up to tangle in Yusuf’s riot of dark curls. “Well,” he murmurs. “That was certainly worth falling off a cliff for.”</p><p>“You scared me.” Yusuf pulls back and shoves Nicolò in both shoulders. “Don’t <em>do </em>that!”</p><p>“It’s not <em>my </em>fault this bloody hellpit decided to blow me off just as I went over,” Nicolò points out, not incorrectly. “At least we found the bottom?”</p><p>“Yes.” Yusuf’s nerves are still jangling like broken lute strings, but he forces himself to focus. Nicolò’s fine, and now everybody got to see him lose his ever-living mind over the stupid vampire. “We <em>could</em> have found it some other way, but I suppose we can’t complain.”</p><p>Nicolò just smiles again, looking unreasonably pleased for someone who just got blown off a terrifying underground staircase, then glances around. “So now what?”</p><p>They can all feel wind on their faces, which must be what caused Yusuf’s recent episode of heart failure, and Muhammad conjures a fireball in his palm, raising it to illuminate the towering archway in front of them. As they get a good look, everyone steps back with a start. It’s decorated with the carved stone heads of men and animals, all of whom appear to be in some stage of horrible death. Eyes roll, mouths gape, faces twisted in silent agony, deformed with pain and madness, as if to eloquently spell out exactly what will become of any unauthorized interloper. For that matter, Yusuf isn’t entirely sure that they were originally statues. There is something a little too lifelike about those frozen screams.</p><p>Muhammad swallows audibly, then squares his shoulders and straightens his weapons, and the others do the same. “Well,” he says. “At least we’ll look good after we die?”</p><p>With that, he takes a brave step over the threshold. When this does not result in him being devoured in Barqan’s Fire or turned into the latest addition to the statuary, he beckons to the others, and they pile in after him. Yusuf and Nicolò stay very close to each other, their fingers linking, and neglect to let go. Yusuf raises his free hand, conjuring a fireball of his own as Ismail does the same, but even the three lights can’t make an impact on the solid blackness. This is what gives Barqan his name, after all, and he must be flaunting his underground kingdom the same way the Banu Zawba’ah flaunt their resistance to iron, showing that he can not just tolerate but thrive in something that otherwise drives jinn mad. Yusuf can feel the weight of the endless earth above, and he thought it was bad in Petra, but this is a hundred times worse. It feels like he’s breathing dark sludge, trapped and beset, fire ants crawling on his skin. If he doesn’t get out of here, if he can’t see the sky, he’s going to die. He’s going to die. He’s going to –</p><p>“Hey.” Nicolò grips his hand harder. “Yusuf, look at me. Look at me. It’s all right. I’m here. Look at me. It’s all right.”</p><p>Yusuf lets out a shaky breath, the world coming back into focus (well, so much as it currently exists). Nicolò is looking at him intently, waiting for Yusuf to get hold of himself. Yusuf inhales, exhales, does it again. “I’m fine,” he says, an echo of Nicolò’s assurance to him. “I’m fine.”</p><p>Nicolò’s eyes remain on him, but he nods and starts to walk again. His eyes are slowly adjusting to the blackness, and Yusuf has a sense of an endless subterranean hall, a forest of frozen stone, huge speleothems that rise almost as high as the walls of the City of Iron. They glitter white with crystals, winding a jagged path through the chamber, as Muhammad and Ismail raise their fireballs to get a better look. The ceiling is too high to make out, but more enormous flowstone formations ripple like a river of enchanted stone. They’re very obviously in horrible danger, but it cannot be denied that the cave is stunning. Up ahead, Yusuf hears running water, and wonders if there’s a lake down here. He certainly does hope that Nicolò will not try to drown him in this one. It feels as if they’re past that, but –</p><p>They only have a split second of warning, a sense of unfamiliar and malevolent magic, and then Muhammad yells something that is cut off before he can get it out. The next instant, Yusuf spots the surging white crest of water racing toward them. The wave breaks with a roar on the tops of stalagmites thirty feet tall, and if it hits them – they’re about to be drowned in a great starless sea, and never get any further than –</p><p>Yusuf grabs hold of Nicolò with one hand and Nile with the other, as if that’s going to do anything. He has some mad notion of running or flying, as if he could escape it either way, and stares at the enormous pitch-black wall of water rising until it engulfs all the available space. He is embarrassed to say that his mind goes blank, and he can only stare at it, waiting for inevitability. Then Nile wriggles free as Yusuf makes a grab for her, runs directly <em>at </em>the onrushing water, throws up both hands, and screams, <em>“STOP!”</em></p><p>Even more unbelievably, the wave actually stops. It remains where it is, churning and splashing and spraying mutinously, but it doesn’t break. Muhammad and Ismail stare at it, at Nile who is holding it at bay with no apparent effort, and then at Yusuf, clearly asking if he knows what’s going on, but he’s equally lost. Just as Yusuf is wondering dementedly if this means they must all grow gills in order to complete their quest, it splits down the middle as if slashed by a great invisible knife. The edges curl away, and half-striding, half-swimming, <em>something</em> comes forth.</p><p><em>Oh, </em>Yusuf thinks dazedly. <em>So </em>that’s<em> what Muhammad was trying to say.</em></p><p>He has never laid eyes on one before, but he is in no doubt that the creature is a marid. One of the other reasons jinn are so leery of water is that any lake or river or even pond of significant size is almost guaranteed to have a marid living in it, and their two ancient magical races are anything but friends. One of Sulaiman’s chief commandments was to force them to end their age-old wars, confining the marid to the water and the jinn to the land, and ne’er the twain shall meet. That, at least, was the idea. Barqan the Black, however, conquered hundreds of thousands of marid and brought them under his rule, and it must be one of those which stands before them now. Its skin is ghostly white, almost translucent, since if it lives in the cave’s lake, it has no need for sunlight. Its body is roughly humanoid, but paved in glittering scales like a fish, its fingers webbed, its eyes huge and golden-yellow. It has two legs, but a moment ago it had a long, powerful shark’s tail. It eyes them with an utterly unimpressed look. Then it says, in deep, rumbling Daevic – speaking as if the filthy language of fire-bloods besmirches its tongue, and it can’t wait to get it off – “What are you trespassers doing down here?”</p><p>“My name is Nile.” Nile doesn’t lower her hands, just in case. “I believe your master is expecting me.”</p><p>The marid snorts angrily, as if it deeply dislikes the reminder that Barqan is its master. “Do not say such things so arrogantly, little mortal,” it warns. “I could still drown the lot of you.”</p><p>“I don’t think so,” Nicolò says. The idiot strides forward, as if to present himself in all his undrownable glory. “Not all of us are human <em>or </em>jinn. If you hadn’t noticed.”</p><p>The marid hisses, recoiling. “Bloodsucker! You are not welcome here.”</p><p>“That’s a pity,” Nicolò says, folding his arms. “Because I’m not leaving.”</p><p>It’s clear that the marid would like to bring down the wall of water upon Nicolò at its earliest convenience, if nothing else for being so brazen, but while he ordinarily would have heartily sympathized with this aim, Yusuf cannot allow it to happen now. He steps forward as well, standing at Nicolò’s side, and Muhammad and Ismail move up behind them, though Yusuf has no idea how one would go about battling a water demon. This one might be the guardian of the gateway, the entrance into Barqan’s realm, or just surprised inopportunely out of a nap and not used to dealing with visitors. There’s a crackling pause. Then it inclines its head, with sinuous, almost-sincere grace. “Apologies. We have all spoken rashly. I am Tamtu. And you are?”</p><p>“Their names are not important,” Nile says, displaying a happy knack for remembering that jinn shouldn’t give up their names easily. “Only mine, which is Nile Nesanet. Barqan the Black King has my kinsmen. I want them back.”</p><p><em>“You </em>are Nile?” Tamtu seems taken aback. They sway on the spot, considering this upstart human closely. “Did you bring that which the king requested of you?”</p><p>“Of course,” Nile says, which is obviously a bald-faced lie. “Will you let us pass or not?”</p><p>“You have the Ring of Solomon?”</p><p>“Yes,” Nile says again, with admirable conviction. “Do you want me to use it on you?”</p><p>Tamtu flinches. “There is no need for unpleasantness, little human. Why do you bring this tawdry collection of men with you? They look tasty. I could devour them.”</p><p>“I don’t think so,” Nile says. “They’re mostly fire-bloods, for one thing, and that would probably give you terrible indigestion. Besides, they’re under my protection. So don’t try it.”</p><p>Muhammad does a double take, clearly surprised to hear that the three powerful jinn brothers are in any sense of the word under <em>Nile’s </em>protection, but decides not to interrupt. Tamtu sizes the five of them up. Then they announce, “King Barqan is waiting for a human by your name, yes. But nobody said that it would come by my road.”</p><p>“Well, here we are.” Nile holds their gaze, which isn’t easy to do, and Yusuf feels another flash of pride in her. “Are you showing us in or what?”</p><p>The marid studies them with their eerie, unreadable eyes. Yusuf thinks that despite themselves, they might be impressed. Then Tamtu bows and makes a commanding gesture, sweeping aside the dark waters to reveal a narrow, slippery path through the stalagmites. “As you wish,” they say, which sounds more than a little ominous. “I have done as you asked, little mortal. But those who venture unwarily into the Black King’s realm do not return.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Nile bows to them, which makes Tamtu look rather startled – if it’s possible to read such an expression on the forbidding, alien, oddly lovely face. Yusuf guesses that receiving such small courtesies are very rare for them, especially for anyone in the presence of jinn. Everyone must look at them and see – as he thought himself – only the water demon, the elemental monster. Glancing at the other four, Nile says, “I guess we’re going in?”</p><p>She starts across the cavern floor with apparently no fear that Tamtu might change their mind and crash the waters in again, like Pharaoh’s army drowned trying to cross the Red Sea after the Israelites. Yusuf and Nicolò hurry up to walk on each side of her. Muhammad and Ismail bring up the rear, not without another suspicious glance at the marid. But on the list of belligerent entities that they are now likely to encounter, Tamtu ranks lower on the scale.</p><p>The path quickly tilts downward, and Nile advances very carefully, feet skidding in the thick, slippery muck. Yusuf and Nicolò each grab her arms, holding her steady, and don’t let go until they have reached the bottom, and more massive cave formations tower out of the darkness, glittering bone-white with gypsum. They twist together to form a second archway almost five stories high. The blackness beyond is impenetrable, alive and waiting, hungry and malevolent. It takes the kind of courage Yusuf has rarely seen even in entire armies for Nile to walk up, still closely shadowed by her protective vampire and djinn escorts, and call, “Hello? Hello!”</p><p>For a moment longer, silence. Then Yusuf catches sight of fire sparking to life as if struck by a flint, a whiff of brimstone, and the darkness moves, shaping itself around the form of the massive ifrit who comes striding out, a whip of fire held casually in its tree-sized hand, smoke rising from its cracked onyx carapace. Its spurs jingle on the rock like distant bells as it tilts its monstrous head down to examine Nile. “Are you the dirt-blood?”</p><p>“My name is Nile Nesanet.” Nile is quaking from head to toe, but she holds the ifrit’s gaze. “And you are?”</p><p>“My name is Wahdeliadj al-Barqan. I am the captain of the Night Riders and the chief of the Black King’s war hordes. You wished yourself away from me before. That was foolish.”</p><p>“Well.” Nile swallows hard. “I’m here now. Do you have my kinsmen?”</p><p>“I carried away some humans from King Baldwin’s court, yes,” Wahdeliadj says carelessly. “Give me the Ring of Sulaiman, and you shall have them.”</p><p>“I want to see them,” Nile counters. “I want proof that they’re alive.”</p><p>Wahdeliadj looks taken aback. Clearly he is likewise not used to humans doing anything but falling on their knees to beg for mercy, and he paces with a distant thunder in the ground, as if momentarily uncertain how to proceed. “I will smite you down if you do not heed me.”</p><p>“I’d like to see you try it.” Yusuf steps forward, both hands filled with flame, as if that will avail him anything against an ifrit. Muhammad and Ismail do the same, green fire flickering through their fingers and casting dancing shadows. The three of them can probably keep the brute distracted for a while, though Yusuf is under no illusions that they could actually beat him. “Are you deaf, ifrit? She wants to see the humans.”</p><p>Wahdeliadj grinds his tomblike teeth. There’s something about his manner that makes Yusuf think he’s decidedly tired of being outwitted by pestilential little mortals. Finally he growls, “Very well. If you wish to run yourselves mad, I cannot stop you.”</p><p>He turns around, raising his arms, as a deep orange-red flame bursts to life and illuminates the dazzling underground citadel that lies beyond the archway. It looks like the City of Iron, but in reverse, beneath the earth rather than high in the air, houses and temples and courtyards and marketplaces gleaming with carnelian and gold and brass, onyx and jet and malachite, echoing with the sound of smelting, fires burning among twisting lanes and distant windows. Wahdeliadj strides through, smoke swirling off his spurs, as the rescue party plucks up their courage and steps into the depths of the City of Carnelian. For the sake of not attracting every hostile djinn in here at once, Yusuf, Muhammad, and Ismail put out their hands. Yusuf sticks so closely to Nile and Nicolò that he is in danger of repeatedly stepping on their feet. He will not turn his back on them for a single instant down here.</p><p>Wahdeliadj leads them through a dark maze of streets, things skittering and whispering and peering at them from the shadows, echoing with the ghosts of low chuckles, distant singing, distant screaming. There is certainly more than a hint of horror, but since Yusuf was imagining this place to be an unalleviated hell, barely a step up from Jahannam in its fields of torment, it startles him to realize that ordinary jinn live ordinary lives here, the same as they do anywhere else. Not all the Banu Barqan are bloodthirsty demonic monsters conjured up to rob and rape and set the countryside alight. They did not have a choice which tribe they were born into, any more than did the Banu Zawba’ah. They are subject to their rulers just as common folk are at any time and place, and a war against them, much as it might sound wise and enlightened, will be no more justified than any other grubby war given an exalted purpose. They need to stop Barqan from seizing the Golden One’s throne, yes. But not at the cost of another massacre.</p><p>In his head, Yusuf sees the carnage of the sack of Jerusalem, hears the screams of innocent people, children cut down even as the mothers pled desperately for their lives. What sort of man, he wondered then and wonders now, could see that and still decide that it was best, holiest, to strike? What sort of djinn, fusty old rules or otherwise, could sit there and permit it to happen, even laugh about the dirt-bloods getting what they deserved? Even if it cost him banishment, Yusuf does not regret what he did. He only regrets that he did not do more. And if that is the price –</p><p>“Hey,” Nicolò whispers hoarsely. “Yusuf?”</p><p>Yusuf starts at the sound of his name on the vampire’s lips. “What?”</p><p>“I just…” He hears Nicolò hesitate. “You seemed far away.”</p><p><em>How does he know that? </em>Is it some new bond between them, the connection from the feed, when they exchanged blood and thoughts and memories and Yusuf briefly thought Nicolò might be hurt and almost lost his mind? “I’m fine,” he says. “We need to stay focused.”</p><p>They enter a huge and almost empty souk, making Yusuf wonder what is bought and sold here in the ordinary course of things, then reach a set of broad black steps on the far side, leading up and up and up an endless ziggurat that rises high into the darkness. Yusuf glances behind them to see the lower districts of the city spread out in their strange glittering lights and swathes of shadow, the jeweled red walls of the cavern gleaming like distant fire. As they climb higher, it’s hard to tell if they are still underground. Presumably they are, but it feels as if they are suspended in midair, in a dark sky of overturned ink, and nothing has ever existed or will exist except the stairs behind and before them. They have never been anywhere but here. They have never done anything but climb.</p><p>At last, some indeterminate time later – it completely defeats Yusuf’s ability to say how much – they reach the top of the ziggurat and step into a cavernous black hall. Enormous lamps on brass chains burn with infernal red fire, casting flaming shadows across the stones, and Wahdeliadj stops short, turning around to leer at them. “Have you seen enough now?”</p><p>“No,” Nile says. “Not until I see my kinsmen. Alive.”</p><p>The ifrit shakes his head, growls, and makes a gesture like a harassed host plagued with unwanted houseguests, inviting them exasperatedly onward. After another few minutes of crossing the sleek, oil-black stones – Yusuf and Nicolò holding hands tightly and not even bothering to pretend they’re not – they reach the foot of a mighty throne that towers out of sight. Just as Yusuf is wondering if Barqan the Black himself is about to descend from on high and roast them on a spit, they catch sight of a pile of chained-up human captives thrown at the base of the dais, like a hound fetching a bone for its master. They’re all indeed alive, if bruised, bloodied, and understandably terrified out of their wits. Upon seeing the newcomers, they all start upright and blurt out some variant of, <em>“Nile? </em>Is that – is that you?!”</p><p>“Yes, it’s me!” Ignoring the hulking presence of Wahdeliadj, the terrifying surroundings, and the fact that they are all trapped deep in the City of Carnelian with no Ring of Sulaiman and no plan to get out alive, Nile runs to them. “Are you all right?! What happened?! Alimayu, what – ”</p><p>“I was going to ask you.” The young man who seems to be the leader, who bears a certain familial resemblance to Nile in the eyes and cheekbones, has managed to retain his self-possession despite what has undoubtedly been the worst few days of his life. “How is it that we’ve been captured by literal demons and they think you have the – ”</p><p>Nile shakes her head, warning him not to continue, especially as Wahdeliadj snorts angrily at the “demon” remark. He reaches for the whip of fire at his belt. “I can show you all just how much, dirt-bloods. Very well. You have seen that your kin are alive and they are here. Even an ifrit can deal in honorable exchange. Give me the Ring of Sulaiman.”</p><p>This is the moment of truth. Yusuf and Nicolò look at each other, then at Nile. The entire world teeters on the edge of an abyss. Yusuf has absolutely no idea what can come next, or if any of them can survive it, no matter what. If she does – if she doesn’t – if he’s right – if he’s wrong – this is it. This is it, and he cannot see anything beyond this instant, balanced on a knife.</p><p>Nile Nesanet says, “No.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I beg your pardon?” Wahdeliadj’s brow darkens like a thunderstorm. <em>“No?”</em></p><p>“I won’t give it to you.” Nile’s knees are quaking, her entire body feels like watery ice, she doesn’t know what she’s done or if her hunch is accurate, and if it’s not, they’re all about to be dead. “You’re going to release my kinsmen and then you’ll set us all free.”</p><p>Wahdeliadj stares at her as if she’s started speaking utter gibberish. Then he uncurls the fire whip and lashes it out with a crack. “Do you wish me to flay you skin from bone? I will do that. You do <em>not</em> wish me to call my master. He will do far worse.”</p><p>“Barqan the Black?” Nile tilts back her chin and does everything she can to meet the ifrit’s infernal gaze without flinching. “Or are you commanded by a human these days? What exactly does King Baldwin of Jerusalem have on you?”</p><p>There’s a sound of horrified indrawn breath from Nicolò and the al-Kaysanis, and then Wahdeliadj lets out a bellow of fury. Nile runs for her life, dodging behind the throne, close enough to feel the heat of the whip burn her skin. She’s banking on the fact that Wahdeliadj can’t actually kill her, no matter how angry he gets. Certainly not before she’s handed over the Ring, and he has to rely on intimidating and bullying and blackmailing her into compliance, rather than what would clearly be his preferred method of reducing her into a pile of ash. He also can’t kill her kinsmen, because that would remove any incentive for her to cooperate with him, and even if this is his home territory and his king’s court, a messy engagement that doesn’t end up with the Ring of Solomon securely in the possession of the Banu Barqan is a damaging loss. He <em>might </em>try to kill Yusuf and the others, but once again, he’s welcome to try. If Nile is wrong about this, they’re all dead anyway. But from the moment Yusuf said that the Ring wasn’t in Petra anymore, she has had the germ of a terrible idea, and it’s now or never.</p><p>Nile bursts from cover, dodges again as Wahdeliadj’s whip lashes over her head, and raises both hands, as she did to stop Tamtu’s flood in the cave. That worked then, and it gives her confidence that she’s right. She focuses as hard as she can on the Ring of Solomon, the burn, the brightness, Yusuf’s first appearance in a dark Jerusalem alleyway. She breathes, <em>“Come to me.”</em></p><p>She doesn’t know what language she’s speaking, if it’s Amharic or Arabic or Hebrew, though she doesn’t consciously know a word of the latter. All she knows is that the black hall lights up in a dazzling flash, brighter than Wahdeliadj’s whip, brighter than a falling star, brighter than life. And the next instant, there it is.</p><p>The Ring looks nothing like the underwhelming, tarnished item that she dropped in a dusty pot in Petra. The gold is lucent and beautiful and clear as sunrise, the black stone mended and blazing with light, and the air physically reverberates with the thunderclap that accompanies the force of its power. Nile staggers; it feels like being hit by a brick wall, and she grabs her Ring-bearing hand with the other, holding it up like a gate in danger of being breached by the enemy’s battering ram. It drives her to her knees, demanding and devouring, pummeling her with the screams of a hundred thousand spirits that were once subject to its all-encompassing power. Her mind flashes broken images of jinn laboring beneath the lash, building the Temple of Jerusalem, as a magician-king with stormy sea-green eyes stands on high, commanding them with a single flick of the Ring – enough to make hardened demons whimper and beg for mercy. Then King Solomon turns his head, seems to look directly at Nile, and his mouth shapes a word. <em>Princess.</em></p><p>No time to dwell on the fact that Diyab the brass merchant called her exactly that when he gave her the Ring, told her that was why she was destined to have it. Nile is battered flat by the blast of the Ring of Solomon fully unleashed, but slowly, one foot and then another, she gets up. The world is still ablaze around her, the dark halls thundering with magic, twisting and spiraling and settling down on one fixed point: the Ring on her finger. See, Nile thinks. It’s very simple. I never truly gave up the Ring, because it can’t be stolen from me. It was mine, it was given to me, and I used it, I bound it to me. That’s why I’ve been able to understand everyone all this time, no matter what language they were speaking. Of course it wasn’t in Petra when Yusuf – or anyone – looked for it there. It was with me again by the time we were out of that cellar, ready to come whenever I called for it, but I didn’t know that. It was hidden. Waiting. Quiet.</p><p>No more.</p><p>She throws up both hands, and a sun-bright shockwave booms through the shadowed halls of Barqan the Black’s throne room, knocking Wahdeliadj backward like a leaf. The look on his face is somewhere between stunned and furious. He starts to get up – ifrit are notorious precisely because they resisted Solomon’s curse, and he clearly has no intention of being subject to it this time around – but Nile throws all her strength into it, fixes her will on the desire to bind him, and he stops dead. His huge muscles bunch and strain, spitting sparks, but he can’t break the magical thrall on him, even as he struggles. “Now,” she says. “I asked you a question. What is the nature of your arrangement with Baldwin of Jerusalem?”</p><p>Wahdeliadj gazes at her in total loathing, but his jaw is pried open nonetheless. “He has a ring. A magical ring, a lesser one, but still containing a djinn of considerable power. He proposed an alliance with my master, King Barqan. Then he tricked me and ordered that if I did not hand the Ring of Sulaiman over to him, he would subject me and all the Night Riders to a painful torment of a thousand years. My master will break this compulsion somehow, but – ”</p><p>“How did Baldwin learn about the magical world?” Nile demands. “Did someone tell him? A djinn? The one in his ring, or someone else, or – ”</p><p>“Someone told him.” Wahdeliadj is still fighting the binding ferociously, and Nile has to keep all her attention on the Ring to maintain it. “Someone told my master as well that the Ring of Sulaiman was returned to the world, which was why he made his plan to retrieve it. I did not know who. I did not learn.”</p><p>Nile applies a few short and sharp magical shocks. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“The Sacred Fire shrivel you, dirt-blood!” Wahdeliadj howls, trying to shake off the painful compulsion of the curse, and even though he is a huge and terrifying and very fiery ifrit who absolutely would murder them all if he was at leisure to do so, Nile feels a twinge of guilt. She <em>isn’t </em>Solomon, who could coolly and ruthlessly bend countless jinn to his will and deprive them of their ancestral magic, enslave them and watch them suffer for years, even if it was divinely ordered for their just chastisement. “I don’t know! I did not learn! Some loyal friend of ours in Jerusalem, perhaps! The Banu Barqan live across the world as much as any of your precious iron princes or bloodsuckers!”</p><p>Nile could turn the screws further, but she senses that Wahdeliadj is telling the truth. Whoever told Barqan (and Baldwin) about the Ring of Solomon was very careful not to reveal their identity, and it could, as the ifrit says, just be an opportunely placed spy. But it still feels like there’s something missing, and Nile decides to put that particular quandary aside. She isn’t sure that she can retain her control over Wahdeliadj and do any other magic at the same time. Daring to turn away only an inch, she shouts, “Yusuf?”</p><p>There’s a noticeable silence, and she briefly fears that she’s lost them somehow. Or it’s just total shock from seeing the Ring of Solomon materialize on her finger while she binds the chieftain of the Night Riders to her command. Then he shouts back, “What?”</p><p>“Open a gate!” Nile winces, straining against the effort. “Back to Dembiya! Send my kinsmen home! It’s too dangerous to return them to Jerusalem, so just send them back to Ethiopia! I’ll collect everything that’s left in the city and bring it later – ”</p><p>She is vaguely aware that Alimayu has been working away on the chains that bind him and the others, and as Yusuf starts toward them, he springs loose and jumps to his feet. “Nile?” he yells. “Nile! I’m not leaving here without you!”</p><p>“Yes, you are!” Nile yells back. God, she loves her stupid, stubborn, bull-headedly protective older cousin, her big brother, who has always looked out for her and even in the midst of actual hell, is refusing to budge until he can be sure that she’s coming too. “Alimayu – Ali – listen to me. Yusuf and his brothers are going to make a magical doorway home. Just go through it. Take everyone with you. Trust me! I’ll bring back your things from Jerusalem later!”</p><p>“No!” Of course, even now, Alimayu has to argue. “I don’t care if it’s dangerous! I can help!”</p><p>“Not like this.” Nile turns around a little more, and their eyes meet. “You can’t fight these enemies. You can’t use this kind of magic, and if you’re back in Jerusalem, you’d be a constant target for the traitor there. You have to let me do this. You have to <em>trust me!”</em></p><p>Silence, even despite the roar and howl all around them, as Alimayu looks anguished. Nile thinks of how he was irritatingly overprotective of her when they arrived, didn’t want her to have her own ale at the tavern, didn’t trust that she could negotiate with the Franks, didn’t think it was safe for her to be so much as out in public. “Nile – ”</p><p>“Do it,” Nile groans, tasting ash and brimstone in her throat, feeling the way her own body is starting to burn up like an oil wick, channeling too much power too fast. “I’ll see you again, all right? Tell Mother and Nebi that I’m coming home, I’m coming back, just not now. Yusuf is my friend. He’s going to help you. <em>Please.”</em></p><p>There’s another terrible instant as they stare at each other. She can tell that it goes against every single fiber of Ali’s being to leave her here, and she loves him for it, but it’s time. Then Alimayu nods once and spins on his heel, taking charge of the situation and helping up his dazed kinsmen, checking that nobody is seriously wounded, and holding them out of the way as Yusuf, Muhammad, and Ismail – also in a nice moment of family unity – work together to create a magical doorway in the air. Nile can smell the familiar hot wind of home, and knows that if she wanted to, she too could walk through it with the others and find herself safely back in Dembiya with her mother and her brother and this nightmare finally over. But she would leave behind Yusuf, she would leave behind Nicolò, she would leave behind this entire world and this war and all the questions she has about who she really is, and she can’t do that. Not here. Not just yet.</p><p>When the door is fully open, the djinni City of Carnelian on one side and the human village on the plains of Lake Tsana on the other, Yusuf yells at Ali to go now, and he urges all of his kinsmen through the door ahead of him, making sure that they get out safely, before he starts toward it himself. But then there’s another crash and boom, the darkness lights up with more fire, and the rest of the Night Riders, having cottoned on to their leader’s predicament, come thundering into the throne room, and the place descends into general chaos.</p><p>Nile is only vaguely aware of the battle, which takes place at a speed that defeats her human eye to follow. She can track the swoops of swords, the clash and crash of trailing blades, hear the zing and hiss of arrows, as the al-Kaysanis and Nicolò put all those weapons to good use. She spots Yusuf and Nicolò fighting back to back for an instant before they vanish again. Ismail swings an axe, buries it deep in a Night Rider’s backside, as fire and black blood swirl across the floorstones. He sees her, yells at her to get out of the way, and Nile dodges. Muhammad jumps directly onto Wahdeliadj’s back as he starts to get up, locking his arms around the ifrit’s neck and choking him down long enough for Nile to regain her slipping control –</p><p>But then, she sees Alimayu, momentarily mesmerized by the brutality and grandeur and no-holds-barred fury of the supernatural battle. He’s still here, he hasn’t left. The nearest Night Rider spots him, draws out a throwing javelin of hard black wood, and –</p><p>Nicolò turns, sees it, is running like a madman before Alimayu has even had a chance to register that it is happening – <em>leaps – </em></p><p>Nile’s scream gets caught in her throat –</p><p>There’s another blur, a snap of movement too fast to see, and then Nile isn’t screaming, but a lot of other people are, and horribly, one of them sounds like Yusuf. She doesn’t know what happened, her eyes are dazed and her mind is overloading with panic. Wahdeliadj is ripping and sawing at the magical binding, determined to tear it with his teeth if necessary, and Nile, losing her focus, is knocked head over heels. She does several somersaults, can feel herself soaring about twelve feet in midair and knows that it is <em>really </em>about to hurt when she comes down, then crashes out on the marble. And lo and behold, it really does.</p><p>Pain burns up Nile from every quarter of her body, welling up from her chest and radiating outward in unbearable icy splinters. She thinks that she might have broken all her ribs, and her hands splay uselessly on the floor. A wash of awful nausea floods over her, and she falls flat again, suddenly aware that the Ring of Solomon is lying several feet away on the floor. It must have flown off her finger with the force of impact. She can’t reach it.</p><p>Groaning, whimpering, fighting blackness, Nile crawls across the stones, leaving a trail of blood, struggling to reach the Ring. But then a booted foot crashes down on her wrist, she screams in renewed agony, and a huge hand reaches down to pick it up. Wahdeliadj’s fiery face is lit in brutal, breathless ecstasy as he closes his fist around it, winces and staggers, then recovers himself. He throws his head back and bellows, <em>“Barqan!”</em></p><p>Nile still doesn’t know what’s going on behind her, if Alimayu is safe or if he is dead, what followed that awful scream from Yusuf and now the sounds of running and begging and shouting, and she can’t look around, because she’s broken more bones in her shoulder or her neck. She stares up at Wahdeliadj, badly injured and desperate, knowing that he’s going to take every opportunity to repay his humiliation at her hands in full, and the Black King is coming, he must be coming right now. If he gets the Ring – if a Jinn King can work out how to sever Nile’s bond with it, take it for his own – this is the end of everything they –</p><p>Somehow, she doesn’t know how, Nile finds the strength to get to her knees. Her head reels, she almost passes out, broken bones grind excruciatingly against each other, and she opens her bloody, mangled hand. Whispers through her crushed throat, one last time, <em>“Come to me.”</em></p><p>The world is turning into nothing but flashing streaks. She tastes blood in her mouth when she breathes, and she is genuinely afraid that she might be dying. But then – even as she can hear rushing in the air, sense a huge black cloud that must be the arrival of King Barqan to claim his prize – Wahdeliadj howls again and stumbles backward, screaming and shaking his hand. It has a hole burned neatly through the palm, molten hot, and the Ring of Solomon falls free, almost slowly, beautifully as a bird coming to alight on a favored perch, onto Nile’s finger.</p><p><em>Help us, </em>she thinks, even though she knows now about the danger of unclear wishes. The first one in Jerusalem bound Yusuf to her and started this, and then the second was what took them to Cairo. She doesn’t know if this counts as the third wish or not – she doesn’t think so, if only because the Ring is the master of all jinn now and not just Yusuf, and if Nile so desired, she could do a great deal more about that. But she doesn’t know, and she doesn’t care, and she is clinging to her last shreds of consciousness before it burns away, and this is all she has space for, inside her. <em>Help us. Yusuf, Nicolò, Muhammad, Ismail, Alimayu – get us out of here, get us OUT –</em></p><p>The Ring of Solomon is the only thing that seems to exist in the world, in the universe. The glow grows brighter and brighter, blinding.</p><p>Nile sways. She thinks she hears shouting. Feels a waft of magic, strange and yet oddly familiar, and a voice that she almost thinks she recognizes. She has no idea how. Sebastien le Livre isn’t here. Nobody is. It’s too late. Nobody is coming. They are all going to die.</p><p>Then she tilts forward, and all the lights go out, and she collapses gratefully into the soft and welcoming arms of the blackness, and she thinks of nothing more.</p><p>***</p><p>Andy is barely aware of anything on the headlong flight from Baldwin’s palace. She is slipping in and out of consciousness, only dragged back by Quynh shouting at her to stay awake, stay with her, with a note of panic in her voice that Andy has never heard before. She tries to muster up enough coordination to actively help in their escape, rather than being a deadweight hindrance, but the pain is just too bad and she can’t focus enough on where they are or even if someone is still chasing them. Booker is behind them, firing off occasional crossbow volleys, and then he reappears, gets Andy by the arm, and sunlight and shouts fall across her face like a cudgel. They must be outside. Shouting means soldiers. Quynh’s arrows hiss over Andy’s head in a deadly rain holding their attackers at bay. Then they’re away again. Running, she thinks. God, it hurts.</p><p>Andy slips to the edge of a soft and comforting blackness, is jarred back by Quynh slapping her cheek, and wrenches her eyes open, getting her feet under her in some stumbling approximation of a run. Booker is still covering their retreat – no more crossbow, but that would be difficult to get away with in a crowded marketplace. They dash down a succession of twisting alleys, Andy isn’t even sure if someone is still chasing them, but Booker doesn’t look in the mood to take chances. They’re getting close to Nicolò di Genova’s house, which is obviously their house for the time being, and Andy starts to suggest that they run in there and hide. But then another door opens, a voice hisses, “In here, now!”, and Andy, Quynh, and Booker tumble inside in an extremely undignified heap. The door slams shut, a bar rattles in, and blessed shadow and silence falls like an axe.</p><p>Andy lies where she is, flat on her back, as their rescuer (if that is what he is) looms over them. Her eyes are dazed with sun and pain, but she thinks it is a Jewish rabbi, and struggles to summon up the name. This must be Nicolò’s friend, the translator of the <em>Key of Solomon, </em>the one he wants to speed away to a new life in Speyer. Samuel ben Kalonymus. But how did he <em>know</em> – ?</p><p>Never mind that. Andy is presently focused on using all her energy not to die, and any other questions are subsidiary. The rabbi strikes a lamp – all the windows of the house are covered over, since they cannot risk nosy neighbors peering in – and beckons Booker and Quynh to lift Andy up and follow him. They rattle downstairs to a small cellar and workroom, Andy moans, and the rabbi economically sweeps a pile of paper off the table. “Put her down there.”</p><p>Quynh crouches at Andy’s head, protective as a tigress. “What are you doing to her?”</p><p>“I will try to save her life,” Rabbi Samuel replies courteously. “I suspect, madam, it is an aim with which you yourself are sympathetic. Hand me that book, please.”</p><p>Andy, if she had enough breath to speak, would protest that she doesn’t need a <em>book, </em>she needs some quick and brutal field medicine. It’s been so long since anything has actually, lastingly <em>harmed </em>her that her mind is still blank with shock, refusing to accept the experience or make any sense of it. But Quynh passes the rabbi the book in question, and he flips it open, rolling up the sleeves of his robe and producing a small iron knife. It doesn’t look like a particularly magical or useful item, but it touches Andy’s torn side with a sensation like ice, and she flinches and screams. It catches in her throat, raw and humiliating, and she bites her tongue. <em>You coward.</em></p><p>Rabbi Samuel tersely directs Booker and Quynh to hold Andy still, slaps a piece of leather between her teeth so she will not bite her tongue off, and cuts into the wound, fishing around until he spots whatever it is that he’s looking for and removes it. There’s a wet <em>plop </em>and clink, he sets it aside, and doesn’t miss a beat, stanching the ragged hole in her side with cloths that drink up and soak crimson. When it has finally slowed to a mutinous, angry trickle, as Andy curses and swears through the strap, he glances at the book and starts to chant. Andy can’t tell if it’s supposed to have an effect, but finally the pain relents enough for the world to come back into focus. Rabbi Samuel collects a needle and thread and starts to stitch her up, as Andy flinches rather a lot for a woman who has spent thousands of years being stabbed with much larger things. “Christ crucified,” she rasps, since while she isn’t Christian in the least, it makes for an appropriate oath in their present geographical circumstances. “What the hell was that?”</p><p>“Don’t speak.” Rabbi Samuel finishes his stitches, scouts around for some remaining clean cloth, and binds her up in the bandage. “I hope it will heal, but it was a serious wound. You will need to take care.”</p><p>“You haven’t asked who we are.” This is flatly ignoring the injunction not to speak, but Andy has never been a very good patient. Mainly since she has never had to <em>be </em>one, at least for more than a few moments. “Or what we want. Or said what <em>you </em>want.”</p><p>“I know who you are.” The rabbi studies her with unreadable eyes. “You are the two witches who stole my manuscript from the <em>alukah. </em>The same way I knew that you had then returned to Jerusalem and taken up residence in Nicolò’s house. I thought it wise to inform myself on my new neighbors. So I had Yossele follow you today. When he saw it begin to go ill at the palace, I suspected there might be a call for my services.” He shrugs. “You are fortunate that I did.”</p><p>Right. Yossele. The golem. Andy blurrily recalls seeing it lurking in the shadows when she and Quynh first arrived and commandeered Nicolò’s house. Apparently it did speed off and inform its master of whatever it learned, then kept an eye on their shenanigans today. Andy is aware that she owes the rabbi a debt, but she never likes being held to anyone’s account, even a man who has saved her life. Better him than some others, perhaps, but still.</p><p>There is a very long pause. Then Quynh, deciding that the danger is over for the moment and there is a low risk of Andy proceeding to expire, unslings her bow, spins around, and points an arrow in Booker’s face. “So how about <em>you </em>explain what you want and what you were doing?!”</p><p>“Easy.” The Frenchman raises his hands, not taking his eyes off her. “You’re also lucky I was there, weren’t you? I saved you, I got you out, I – ”</p><p>“Maybe.” Quynh doesn’t flinch. “We still don’t know if you shot her in the first place.”</p><p>Booker starts to say something, then stops. He turns away, staring at the cluttered stacks and shelves of Rabbi Samuel’s workroom. Finally he says, “I’m hoping that we can make some sort of deal. I doubt that it will come as a surprise to you that I have also been looking for the Ring of Solomon. There was a brass merchant named Diyab, I heard that he had it, or he knew where it was. Clearly I was not the only one. By the time I found him, he was dead in an alley.”</p><p>“Yes,” Quynh says. “That was where we first saw you. How did you learn about the Ring in the first place? Unless we’ve missed something, you’re a human.”</p><p>“I was – I am – I don’t know – a soldier in King Baldwin’s army.” Booker rubs his face. “I came here on the crusade, from France, and I stayed after it was over. Somehow the rumor got out about the Ring of Solomon being found. Stephen de Méric, who as you may have noticed is an utter and irredeemable arsehole, was charged with retrieving it for Baldwin. Then it got even more complicated, there was the involvement of a jinn king named Barqan the Black, some kind of alliance, secret politics. As you may have <em>also </em>noticed, Baldwin has a magical ring of his own. Not <em>the </em>Ring, but still nothing to sneeze at. I thought that one might work, but it didn’t. Besides, I still needed to find the Ring of Solomon to complete my arrangement with – ”</p><p>Here he pauses, as if Andy and Quynh are supposed to understand something. However, they don’t, and Quynh jerks the arrow at him. “Keep talking. Baldwin’s ring didn’t work to do what? Why would you even get mixed up in this giant magical mess that is so far beyond anything you could ever hope to understand?”</p><p>Booker continues to stare at the wall, arms folded across his chest. His voice is both flat and devastated. “I thought it could bring my wife and sons back to life.”</p><p><em>Oh. </em>Andy isn’t surprised that his motives would ultimately turn on the painfully personal, even as it’s clear that he is indeed a human and has no idea of what magic is truly capable – or not capable – of. It’s on the tip of her tongue to bluntly inform Booker that it would never have worked and he’s wasting his time, but something holds her back. It hasn’t escaped her that Booker has neither confirmed nor denied shooting her, or explained what that “arrangement” is or with who, and if she was a little stronger, she might demand better answers. What comes out instead is, “What – what happened to them?”</p><p>“They died.” Booker turns to her, eyes bleak. “Back in France. That was why I went on the crusade in the first place. There was nothing left for me at home, and I felt that I had to atone for my sins. After Jerusalem was captured, since there was likewise no reason for me to return, I decided to settle down here and try to make a new life. Plenty of work for a soldier, with the expansion of the Latin Kingdom. But when I heard about the Ring – if there was any kind of chance – if I could possibly have them back again – ”</p><p>Quynh narrows her eyes at him. “So were you the one summoning ghuls? Trying to use Baldwin’s ring to bring back the dead, and just succeeding in raising a bunch of monsters?”</p><p>Booker looks blank. “Summoning what?”</p><p>He could be lying, but Andy doesn’t think so. It would take an ifrit of uncommon power to raise ghuls almost five years dead, and since Baldwin said that they were attacking the palace – Booker himself lives there, presumably, and doesn’t <em>quite </em>seem like the type to sic a bunch of ravening corpses on his own household – it doesn’t add up. “The disgusting thing in the cage,” she says, voice hoarse. “In the throne room. Baldwin said they captured it while it was trying to attack the palace. Do you know anything about that?”</p><p>Booker shakes his head. “I didn’t have anything to do with those monstrosities. I have no idea where they came from.”</p><p>Andy eyes him, trying to decide if she’s going to take him at his word. She isn’t sure that she trusts him, and even if he has helped them and gotten them to safety, it’s clear that he has done anything but give up on his desperate aim of using the Ring of Solomon to charm his lost loved ones back to life. She should tell him that they would also end up as ghuls, assuming he even returned to the cemetery in France where they have presumably been dead and buried for however many years now. Instead she coughs, and Rabbi Samuel goes to fetch her a dipperful of water, sliding a hand under her head to help her drink it. As the last drops roll down her chin, Andy croaks, “What was I shot with, exactly?”</p><p>“This.” Rabbi Samuel wraps his hand in cloth and holds up something small and pointed and gleaming gold, still stained with Andy’s blood. “It is a sort of projectile I have not seen before, and it is djinn-made. There is a curse on it that would take down most creatures, no matter what they were. I will try to find some method of destroying it, but in the meantime, I would not advise that you touch it or perform any investigations of your own.”</p><p>His voice is sharp, clearly sensing that Andy has trouble following any authority that is not her own, and she nods reluctantly. But one fact about this has piqued her attention. “If it’s <em>djinn-</em>made – it would be Barqan’s, wouldn’t it? The Black King. His ifrit, Wahdeliadj, was in the throne room, taking away Nile Nesanet’s relatives. And isn’t one of his palaces known as the Castle of Gold? This seems like something he would invent.”</p><p>“You are, as far as I know, correct.” Rabbi Samuel studies her thoughtfully. “Would I likewise be correct in assuming that you have run afoul of the Night Riders recently?”</p><p>Andy is surprised that he also knows about those, though she shouldn’t be. “Yes,” she admits, coughing up blood, and Quynh drops her bow and hurries anxiously to her side. “We fought them in the desert a while ago. Wahdeliadj wanted to kill me because of it. But after he had gone, there was another explosion that destroyed the ghul, so if it was the same thing – ”</p><p>“That was me,” Booker interrupts. “I shot the cursed thing with a crossbow. I was afraid it wasn’t going to work, but at least it stopped it long enough for us to escape.”</p><p>“And?” Quynh, torn between her urges to comfort Andy and glare at Booker, splits the difference by doing both. “You were just hiding in the throne room watching everything go to hell, hoping that you’d have the chance to sweep in for a heroic rescue? You said that you wanted to make a deal. What deal?”</p><p>Booker looks as if he can’t decide whether to admire her pluck or be exasperated by her obstinacy, which can be a mood when it comes to Quynh, but this is why Andy loves her. “Yes,” he says reluctantly. “I thought that if I rescued you, you would be willing to help me complete an agreement I have to find and retrieve the Ring of Solomon.”</p><p>Andy and Quynh exchange an inadvertent look. The last thing they want is more unknown actors and mysterious agents interfering in the Ring hunt, which is complicated enough as it is. And since Booker has baldly admitted to doing them a favor in anticipation of it being returned, it’s not as if they’re in any hurry to fall on his neck and weep with gratitude for the rescue. They don’t know where the Ring is, just where it isn’t. Booker clearly knows enough that he could be a dangerous enemy if he turns against them, but this has to be handled with the utmost care, and Andy isn’t in any shape to have a vigorous conversation, let alone any physical throwdown. The shock and chaos of her injury and their escape are starting to subside, and a bone-deep weariness is creeping up in its wake. “I need to think about this,” she says. “And I need to rest.”</p><p>The table of Rabbi Samuel’s workroom is not the most convenient or comfortable sickbed, but they can’t move her too much for fear of jostling her wound. Quynh collects the few non-bloodstained cloths in the room, fashioning a crude swaddle for Andy to lie on, and Rabbi Samuel goes upstairs to fetch a blanket and pillow. Quynh likewise can’t decide if she wants to stay at Andy’s side or keep an eye on Booker and make sure he doesn’t get up to anything shifty while one of them is unconscious. Andy mutters, “Go. I’ll be all right.”</p><p>Quynh looks at her worriedly, smoothing Andy’s hair out of her face and bending to kiss her. “You gave me quite a scare,” she whispers. “Sleep.”</p><p>“Mmm.” Andy’s not sure how that’s going to work, but she does need to try. She struggles to think of something else to say, ask Quynh to figure out if the golden projectile is indeed some nasty trick of Barqan’s and whatever Booker is hiding – she does not by any means think that he has been fully forthcoming with them – communicate with Nicolò, or anything else. But her instinctive need to manage the situation, to take control, yields before the oncoming nothingness. She has been fighting very hard to stay conscious, and when she drops her guard, she can feel the wave washing over her. No point fighting. She goes under.</p><p>Andy sleeps sporadically, sometimes dozing close to the surface and sometimes deeply, out, always harried awake by red stabs of pain. She wants to shout for Rabbi Samuel and ask him to do his painkilling spell again; her own magic feels numb, deadened, cut off at the root, as if the curse is still embedded in her flesh and hampering her attempts to heal herself. It has to be Barqan, doesn’t it? The Black King has plenty of motive to want the Ring of Solomon, and likewise plenty of motive to punish Andy and Quynh for keeping it from him. He is obviously experienced in creating magical items to do nasty things, and has a particular affinity with gold. Whoever shot Andy had to be working for him. Right?</p><p>Well aware that she botched it spectacularly last time by making too many assumptions and ignoring the parts of the situation that she didn’t understand, Andy is wary of committing too deeply to this answer. She can’t stay awake long enough to hash it out, and thinking too much makes everything hurt. She falls back under, wanders in the strange dark country of sleep, and opens her eyes to find that she’s thirsty as a desert, and can’t move. “Quynh?” she calls, at least partly to ensure that nothing else terrible has happened in her absence. “Quynh?”</p><p>After a pause, she hears footsteps on the stairs, squints her eyes up against the glow of a fireball, and sees her lover’s face behind it. Quynh leaves the fireball bobbing in the air, goes to get Andy more water, and tenderly helps her drink it. Andy husks, “What time is it?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Late.” Quynh pauses. “He tried to call me, by the way. Nicolò.”</p><p>“What?” Andy sits upright, or rather tries to. She is felled by a staggering bolt of pain and Quynh’s very firm hand on her shoulder, evidently anticipating this reaction, and collapses back onto her table-bed, swearing. Finally, she grits out, “Why?”</p><p>“I don’t know. I couldn’t go to him and leave you here unconscious.” Quynh’s lips go thin. “Booker is still here, though I still haven’t figured out what angle he’s playing. I asked him again if he shot you, and he avoided the question. Or rather, he said that he didn’t, but I am far from sure that it was the truth. I think his reference to an <em>agreement </em>means there’s someone else involved, some other patron, but he also managed to duck answering who that was.”</p><p>“I will work out what that man’s up to.” Andy stares at the ceiling. The room smells of herbs and ink and old parchment, and she feels an oblique guilt for crashing into the middle of Rabbi Samuel’s life, even if he is the one who brought her here. She is not insensible of the danger that he is putting himself and his family in by shielding them; even aside from the run-of-the-mill bigots who don’t think Jews have any place in Jerusalem, any number of magical foes could burst through the door. “We should get out of here as soon as we can.”</p><p>“You’re still in no shape to go anywhere,” Quynh reminds her bossily. “I could try to get you to Nicolò’s house, but – ”</p><p>Andy wants to insist that she would have no trouble making it a few dozen yards down the lane, but since she just failed at sitting up, she should not count her chickens. “I suppose we need to work out what’s going on first. Do you really have no idea what he wanted?”</p><p>“We told him to call us with the iron ring when he had information to trade, so perhaps that was it.” Quynh glances around in search of food, but Andy’s guts are twisted in knots and she doesn’t think she could manage actually eating. “But it’s possible that his trip to the City of Iron went badly, or his plan to double-cross the al-Kaysanis was discovered, and he needed a bailout. Either way, that is his problem. I’m not going anywhere with you like this.”</p><p>Andy musters a grateful smile, and Quynh strokes her hair absently, as they sit there together in the darkness. Andy supposes that it would be a pity if Nicolò is permanently out of the picture, as he seemed like one of the few honest men (or you know, vampires) in Jerusalem, but that is always the danger when playing for this high level of stakes. Besides, unless she very much misses her guess, there is more going on with him and Yusuf al-Kaysani than meets the eye. Either way, as Quynh says, they have enough problems of their own, and cannot be expected to attend to his. It is best that way, most sensible. One thing at a time. What could they even do?</p><p>A few beats pass. Then Quynh says, “You’re still thinking about Nicolò, aren’t you?”</p><p>“I just – ” Andy releases a pained sigh. “Presumably he wouldn’t have called for us if it wasn’t important. And there’s already so much that we don’t know – if we’re caught off guard again, and since we could at least send you – ”</p><p>Quynh looks at her reluctantly, still unwilling to entertain the idea of being parted from Andy in her vulnerable state, but while it is all well and good to tenderly dote upon your wounded lover, getting key strategic information is better, and both of them know it. She sighs, then picks up Andy’s hand and kisses it. “I hate that you’re always right,” she says. “I’ll go fetch the rabbi.”</p><p>With that, she gets up and slips up the stairs, as Andy leans painfully on her elbows and waits for their return. When Quynh reappears, she is accompanied not just by Rabbi Samuel, shrugging on a shawl over his nightshirt, but Booker. Andy has to admit, she thought he would have done a bunk by now, running off to reconnoiter with whatever mysterious force is pulling his strings, but perhaps he’s waiting to see if they’re going to be any use. He’s holding a goblet of wine, which he proffers at her like a peace offering. “Here. It will help with the pain.”</p><p>Andy eyes him, wondering if she is willing to go quite so far as to drink something he prepared sight unseen. She decides that she isn’t. “Thanks, but I’m all right.”</p><p>He shrugs, then sets the cup down away from the stacks of parchment. The rabbi removes a silver bowl, pours a pitcher of water into it, and begins to murmur another complicated invocation, passing his hands over the surface. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then –</p><p>The image bursts to life like an explosion, with enough force to send Rabbi Samuel stumbling. Even reflected through the water, the dazzling pulses of magic flare bright enough to illuminate the entire cellar, burning up in columns of light and fire. The water sloshes, almost spilling over the sides of the bowl, and Rabbi Samuel grips onto it as if it’s about to sprout wings and fly away. “What is that?” Andy asks. “What – what’s going on?”</p><p>“I tried to use a simple spell to locate Nicolò’s whereabouts – the same one that helped him find you and your friends in the desert. But it seems he’s landed in the middle of – I don’t know what this is, I’ve never seen anything like it, the power is – ”</p><p>“Wait.” Booker shoulders past the rabbi and stares down into the bowl. Whatever magical mayhem is happening within, whatever evident and exigent dilemma the vampire has managed to entangle himself in, it seems to make more sense to the Frenchman than any of them. “Is that – if that’s what we’ve been waiting for – ”</p><p>Apparently oblivious to the askance looks being aimed at him by Andy, Quynh, and Rabbi Samuel alike, Booker stares into the bowl, the silent flashes of light reflecting eerily on his face. He seems totally transfixed. Then he looks up, wild-eyed. “I have to go. I’ll be back soon. I’ll take both of you somewhere safe, and everything’s going to be fixed. There’s magic there that can heal you. Everything’s going to be all right, I promise. For everyone. I just – I just have to go.”</p><p>“Hold on.” Quynh makes a grab at his sleeve. “What is this? Why do you recognize it? If this is some kind of – ”</p><p>“I don’t have time to explain! I swear, everything will be better!” Booker charges across the cellar, starting up the stairs as if he expects someone to be waiting at the top. Then there is a whoosh and a rush of air from upstairs, and she catches sight of a rich golden glow – as if some heavenly host, an avenging archangel, has descended in the dark street outside,. What the <em>hell – ?</em></p><p>“You know,” Andy calls after him, mustering as much force into her voice as she can. “If this is some ridiculous long con intending to turn us over to King Barqan, if that is who you’ve actually been working for all along – ”</p><p>Booker looks at her as if she’s an idiot, as if she’s missed the blindingly obvious – and once more, terrifyingly, Andromache of Scythia cannot discount the possibility that she has. “Not King Barqan,” he says. “I promise. <em>Everything </em>is going to be fixed. Just wait. I’ll be back soon.”</p><p>And with that, before anyone can say anything else, before they can stop him, he runs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Yusuf knows exactly where he is before he even opens his eyes. It would be strange if he did not. He lived here for decades, slept here, woke here, lived here, loved here, and the old sense of it is so deeply grained into him that for one eternal moment, he thinks that everything has been just a bad dream. The Franks never came here, he was never banished from Jerusalem, never plunged into the ridiculous search for the Ring, never watched the City of Carnelian torn apart with magical fire, never saw that awful thing which will not yet take shape in his mind except from terror. Because how can any of it have happened? He is lying in his own bed, safe in the Golden One’s palace in the Holy City. He is back in al-Maḏhab’s service, waiting for Prince Sa’id to rouse him for whatever it is they are doing today. If so, not even Nicolò –</p><p><em>Nicolò. </em>That, somehow, is what sticks in Yusuf’s mind, is what calls him back from dazed reverie to stark reality. His eyes fly open. He sits up so fast that the blood rushes to his head, blackness reeling in his vision. He blinks the spots away and still thinks he has to be hallucinating. He is right; he is indeed in his old bedroom in Jerusalem, and he is lying on the bed in a manner that suggests he was unconscious when he was brought in. His clothes are singed and sooty, there is black blood oozing from cuts on his arms and face, and his throat is raw in a way that feels like he was screaming. He doesn’t remember the exact sequence of events after the Ring of Sulaiman made an appearance. He just knows something is very wrong.</p><p>Panicking, Yusuf scrambles off the bed, staggers, and grabs hold of a side table, sending a golden ewer and crystal goblet crashing to the floor. Evidently they were put there for his refreshment when he awoke, but he can only summon a passing concern for their abrupt demise. He looks around wildly, rubbing his eyes in case this is some further level of cruel deception, and he is shut in Barqan the Black’s darkest dungeon. That would not be at all beyond their capabilities: make the prisoner think he is somewhere else, somewhere pleasant, and then slowly strip away the illusion, plunge bit by bit into the torture. Yusuf crashes off the wall, skids and almost falls, and sprints for the door like a madman. “Nicolò!” he bellows. “NILE! NICOLÒ! NILE! <em>NICOLÒ!”</em></p><p>He wrestles with the door – it is barred, briefly convincing him that this has to be a prison – almost losing his mind with fear. Then it opens from the other side, a hand reaches out, and a voice says, “Yusuf. Yusuf, my dear. Please, you must calm down.”</p><p>Nothing makes sense. Nothing makes sense the smallest bit, not anything anywhere. Yusuf backs up like a cornered animal, aware that once this would have been the sweetest sight of his life but somehow not feeling that way just now, as the door shuts behind none other than Prince Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab himself. He is looking especially beautiful today. He is dressed in blue silk with copper embroidery, a golden circlet resting regally on his ink-dark head, his brown skin and golden eyes glowing with divine fire and his lips turned up in a soft, worried smile. “It is just me, sweetheart,” he says gently. “Take a breath. You’re safe now. You’re with me.”</p><p>“What…?” Yusuf still cannot process a single thing. “The City of Carnelian… Wahdeliadj… Nile… my brothers? Where are they? Where is Nicolò?” He has to know this more than anything else. <em>“Where is Nicolò? </em>Is – is he all right?”</p><p>Something like a flash of irritation passes through Sa’id’s eyes, that he is standing here in his full majesty, and Yusuf is desperately asking about another man. “We rescued all of you from the City of Carnelian,” he says. “And in the nick of time. The bloodsucker, however, was badly wounded. One of the Night Riders staked him, and – ”</p><p><em>“Staked?” </em>Yusuf reels again. Whatever he felt at watching Nicolò plunge off the cliff, this is ten times worse. Yes, that was it, that is what happened, that is why he was screaming, and he closes his eyes against the memory of Nicolò throwing himself in the way of the hardwood spear that would have otherwise skewered Alimayu. It takes everything he has to get the next question out. “He’s not – ?”</p><p>“He is alive.” Sa’id studies Yusuf rather narrowly, but decides not to pry too deeply into this impassioned inquiry. “For now. It was chaos when we arrived, I feared it might be too late. But you’re here, you’re safe, and that is all that matters. Sit down, my dear. You look like you have been dragged through hell. I suppose I cannot blame you.”</p><p>Yusuf does not want to sit down. He does not even want to engage in genteel parley with Sa’id, sip nectar and reminisce about the good old days or whatever else is going on here. He wants to see Nicolò, and he wants to see Nicolò now. “Is he awake?”</p><p>“The bloodsucker?” Sa’id’s mouth purses in disapproval. “I do not know, I have not asked. Come now, Yusuf. Did you not hear what I said? You’re safe.”</p><p>“So you came to the City of Carnelian? In person?” Yusuf is still struggling to make sense of the shattered glass in his head, which will not cohere into actual memories. He does not know how Nile worked out his theory, that the Ring of Sulaiman was with her all along because she could not truly give it away, but she did, because she is brave and brilliant. “Have you been watching us? How could you know that I was in trouble – that <em>we </em>were? What do you want?”</p><p>“The same thing I have been transparent all along about wanting.” Sa’id steps further into the room, glancing around with a look of nostalgia. “We had some good times here, did we not?”</p><p>“Yes,” Yusuf says tightly. “A few. More often I was brought to your chambers, my prince.”</p><p>“Of course.” Sa’id skims an elegant hand over the cushions. “As to how I knew that you were in need of assistance – well, I suspected, but an associate of mine took the initiative to inform me. Something of a long story. But see? You are back in Jerusalem. Everything will be put right.”</p><p>Yusuf rubs his face. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t feel happy in the least – well, he does know, but even if Nicolò was not hurt, something about this, no matter how long he has defended Sa’id and insisted that they had to recruit him as an ally, feels wrong. He <em>wants </em>to give into the comforting belief that nothing between now and five years ago actually matters, that all his mistakes have been whisked away, but there was a specific condition for his welcome back into the flock. “You said I would have my exile revoked if I brought you the Ring of Sulaiman,” he says. “I don’t recall that I’ve done that.”</p><p>“Have you not?” Sa’id is still regarding him with that strange half smile. “What do you call the girl, then?”</p><p>“Where’s Nile?” The fear for her safety is not quite as all-consuming as it is for Nicolò, but it is by no means inconsiderable. In fact, Yusuf startles himself by how deeply he needs her to be all right, in the same way (to his surprise) he’s also going to be very upset if Muhammad and Ismail are hurt. Coming out of this mess with a better relationship with his estranged brothers is – well, he can’t say he was expecting that, but openness to the unforeseen blessings of Allah, so on and etcetera. “Is she – ”</p><p>“She is alive,” Sa’id says, with a definite vexation that Yusuf keeps sidetracking their conversation to ask about others. “Also badly hurt, however. She broke a number of bones, and the power of the Ring – clearly it’s too much for a helpless human. It almost burned her alive. So you will, as her friend, convince her of the wisest course of action.” He pauses, clearly not wanting to be so indelicate as to state it openly. “Yes?”</p><p>“You want…” Yusuf suddenly thinks that he might need to sit down after all. It is there, it is taking shape just beneath the surface of his thoughts, but he can’t yet look directly at it. Instead he says, “So you just… burst into the City of Carnelian? King Barqan could have taken that as a mortal insult, declared war on the Banu Maḏhab. If you – ”</p><p>“What?” Sa’id looks at him incredulously. “Are you truly asking whether I stopped to politely notify my intentions to a dangerous archdemon before I launched a rescue mission to save the man I love? Jinn kings <em>can </em>enter the other’s territory uninvited, even if it is usually considered a scandalous breach of good decorum to do so. But with your life at stake, I decided that proper protocol could go hang. As for King Barqan, I suspect that he will be causing less difficulty than usual quite soon.” He holds out a hand, eyes soft and imploring. “But never mind these distasteful subjects. You must have missed this place. Come walk with me.”</p><p>Yusuf <em>has</em> missed this place. Yusuf has missed it so badly he could barely stand it. He hates the fact that part of him still wants this to be real, to just take Sa’id’s hand and stop asking questions and revel in his good fortune. He’s here. He’s alive. He got out of the City of Carnelian with his hide intact, and there even seems to be a path for this all to end happily. <em>Happily for who? </em>He needs to do something, he needs to say something, but how can you truly take this in about someone who you used to love with all your heart? Despite Sa’id’s soft words and honeyed promises, all these luring phrases meant to make Yusuf believe that the prince has spent this entire time pining after him and deeply regretting that they were ever parted… why this? Why now? Yusuf needs to – needs to do <em>what?</em></p><p>At a loss for what else to do, hoping to buy time, he shuts his mouth and follows Sa’id out of the room. The hallway beyond is likewise just as he remembers, leading down to the screened porch that overlooks the main palace courtyard. Beyond its walls, Jerusalem tumbles down the hillside, the Dome of the Rock glinting golden in the sun. It is a view Yusuf has enjoyed countless times before. The wind smells right, the palms sway just as they did, servants hurry on their comings and goings, and everyone stops to prostrate before the prince. Sa’id smiles magnanimously, offering blessings, and Yusuf stares out at the beautiful blue day, reminding himself of when this was all he wanted. His heart aches. <em>Oh, Sa’id. Oh my love. What have you done?</em></p><p>They stroll through the corridors, the breeze tousling their hair, as Sa’id eyes Yusuf’s filthy robes critically. “You hardly look appropriately dressed for court, alas. I’m sure we could find some of your old things. But then, quite soon, there will be no princely rails fine enough for you. You will be a great hero for all of us, and – ”</p><p>“Sa’id.” Yusuf’s voice is rough. If he is not about to be conducted to Nicolò’s sickbed on the instant, he has lost all desire to play along. “What exactly do you think I am about to do for you?”</p><p>There is a very tenuous pause. Then Sa’id beckons Yusuf to follow him – which, after a deep hesitation, he does. They pass through several sets of carved doors, each more richly decorated than the last, and then Sa’id opens the final set and they step out into the throne room. The last time Yusuf was here, it was only an illusion, projected in after Damriat the ifrit captured him and Nile, and it faded away like sand. This time he is properly present, and the silken hangings and marble floorstones are more splendid than ever, golden fires burning behind filigree screens and the air scented with spice. Yusuf has been in a number of jinn throne rooms recently, however, and thus far without exception, something deeply unpleasant has promptly happened to him. If Sa’id has brought him here to make him feel comfortable, it is having the opposite effect. Yusuf keeps a stiff distance, back straight and eyes open, waiting for the catch.</p><p>“You recall,” Sa’id says, as if Yusuf can have somehow forgotten, “that barely a moon’s turn ago, you knelt in this very place, kissed my hand, and vowed to bring me the Ring. I do not understand, Yusuf. What can have changed so swiftly in that time? You and I have been the most important thing to each other for years and years. Surely not – ”</p><p>“Me? The most important thing to you?” At that, finally, Yusuf laughs. “The humble son of a lesser tribe, since everyone in the world is <em>lesser </em>to you and your father? The one you agreed to banish for the crime of trying to save human lives, to defend our own <em>city? </em>I gave up everything for you, <em>everything, </em>and yet here you are asking for more, expecting that I will have no thought in my head but to give it! I am nothing but a puppet to you. A pretty plaything to while away a few hours, then to be cast aside when it became inconvenient. Now you stand here with the <em>gall</em> to act as if you did anything for me like what I did for you, and – ”</p><p>Some part of him wants to keep ranting, to spill out everything that he has finally been given enough clarity to see for what it really is, but even now, he is held back. Until he knows where Nicolò, Nile, and his brothers are, he must be cautious, he must be shrewd, he must not give into that regrettable tendency that his mother warned him about, to be a terrible hothead and say exactly what is on his mind. Sa’id looks startled. Finally he says, “Yusuf, you must know how terribly I rue how things ended between us. That is precisely what I wish to mend now. Everything will be different – it will be <em>better</em> – once I have the Ring. When you give it to me – ”</p><p>“Once I give it to you,” Yusuf repeats tonelessly. “Yet one more thing I am expected to do to buy your affection, and which will conveniently place you above anyone’s power or reproach. Even your own father’s, the most powerful king in our entire world. And you must know by now that I have absolutely no ability to give or withhold the Ring from anyone. Why are you asking me?”</p><p>“Because,” Sa’id says. “The human girl must be separated from it. I will not ask how long you have known what it was that she had, why you then conspired to keep it from me, or anything else. If this is not done, she will become a new Sulaiman, curse and enslave us all again, and place us in miserable penury and bondage for another thousand years. I should think that enemies far worse than the pair of us could band together to prevent that.”</p><p>Yusuf starts to answer, then stops. What can he say to that? It is, after all, the exact set of arguments that he used to justify his actions in regard to Nile all along. He never planned to tell her the truth, took her to Petra precisely so she would give it up, manipulated and connived to stay one step ahead of her. Until something began to change. Until he fought his own brothers for disrespecting her and calling her a dirt-blood (and for their insult to Nicolò, which is its own entirely <em>other </em>thing). Until he walked into the City of Carnelian with her in the lead, until he saw her fearlessly negotiate with a marid and bind an ifrit, saw her command the Ring as if she was truly born to it. He should have taken that as proof that she’s already too powerful and needs to be stopped. Instead he’s been constantly worried about her well-being and thinking up ways to rescue her and get out of here. Finally he says, “And?”</p><p>“The girl must give the Ring up willingly.” Sa’id’s golden eyes remain mild. “Nobody can take it from her. Even if they managed to obtain physical possession, she could always call it back to her, and it would obey her commands. Do not tell me that you have come to love your master, Yusuf. It is the most unforgivable sin for a slave of any species. Tell me, do you really think this girl is any different from the rest of them? You, the cleverest man I have ever known?”</p><p>Again Yusuf starts into an answer. Again he stops. Again Sa’id has voiced something that he has thought in exactly as many words himself. All his reluctance to tell Nile about the magic of wishes, his constant conviction that she was just like the other humans, that she would give into the predictable greed for money and power and beauty. <em>Why did you wish for </em>we? That question from breakfast in his mother’s kitchen, the pivot on which everything hangs. Nile has still not used her third wish. Her first two were for protection. For her, for them. Just because she has not given into the temptation thus far does not mean she never will. He <em>wants </em>to believe that she is truly different, but then, he is a confounded optimist with a heart two sizes too big for his body, and even despite all the good reasons otherwise, he lets it lead him astray.</p><p>And yet.</p><p><em>Have you come to love your master, Yusuf? </em>Technically, that is still what Nile is to him. She has never insisted on it, never punished, never enforced, but the fact remains the same. Yet she asked him and his brothers for help, she did not command. Even in the depths of the battle in the City of Carnelian, she did not put it all to a convenient end or offer any of them up as a sacrificial lamb. But how can Yusuf, who inadvertently sold his own brother into eternal slavery, decide that this is not so bad? Nile is the enemy. Humans can never relate on an equal level to jinn, or be free of the impulse to control them. It is what Yusuf has always been told, everything he has believed, that his world is built on. Even as much as eyebrows have raised at his – <em>whatever </em>is going on with Nicolò, at least vampires are fellow supernatural creatures, grudgingly understood and dealt with. <em>Humans, </em>these greedy little nonmagical beasts of dust and blood –</p><p>Sa’id is waiting, watching all this cross his face, wise enough not to leap in and to let Yusuf reach the natural conclusion himself. At last he says, “Well?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Yusuf stares at the massive gilded columns. “I want to see Nicolò.”</p><p>“I do not know if that will – ”</p><p>“Listen.” Yusuf turns on him, pinning Sa’id with a flat, cold look. “If there is <em>any chance </em>of me doing this, I need some surety that you can be trusted. I want to see Nicolò <em>now.”</em></p><p>Sa’id looks about to say that there was never any need to prove trust between them before, that this is a maneuver more necessary for embittered enemies than old lovers, but he inclines his head in a more-or-less graceful nod. He raises a hand, beckoning Yusuf to follow him, and they cross the throne room, exit out the side door, and descend another familiar maze of corridors to a small chamber in the servants’ quarters. Sa’id points at the door. “Your vampire… friend is in there. When you have finished, return to me.”</p><p>Something in Yusuf bridles at this, at the idea that he may go in and pay perfunctory court upon an unworthy bloodsucker and then return to his glittering golden prince, the man who held his nights and his dreams and his heart for so many years. He nods curtly, pushes past Sa’id without another word, and even forgets to knock. He just needs to be in there now.</p><p>Inside, the room is sparse and bare, no luxurious confections of silks and jewels, and the only small window is barred. But – and Yusuf’s heart gives a painful shuddering giddy leap – nothing else in it matters except for one thing. Nicolò lies on a cot in the corner, eyes closed, looking – well, less terrible than Yusuf feared, <em>Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah. </em>There is dark blood on a bandage wrapped around his chest, and he is clearly not feeling the most sprightly, but he stirs at the sound, eyes cracking open to show a slit of clear grey. He looks confused. Then his face crumples, and he breathes, “Yusuf?”</p><p>“Yes, it’s me, I’m here.” Yusuf rushes to the bedside, completely unable to pretend that he wants to do anything else. He clutches Nicolò’s hands to his heart, unable to tell if he should be alarmed that they are so chilly or if it is just the usual temperature-related ridiculousness of a vampire. How can he, a creature literally made of fire and heat and sun, have fallen in love with a cold-blooded scion of the moon and stars? Or is it exactly what was meant, so different on their own yet matching perfectly together in a great celestial harmony, as night and day were made for each other by Allah at the dawn of time? His heart has shaken loose of its mooring in his chest, is shivering and fluttering and twisted up, and it hammers in his throat with every breath he takes, every instant he looks at Nicolò. So of course what he says is, “You bloody <em>idiot, </em>how could you have jumped in front of the damn Night Riders? If they <em>staked </em>you – ”</p><p>“They missed my heart,” Nicolò points out helpfully. “Otherwise I’d be a pile of dust in the Black King’s throne room. And if I hadn’t jumped in the way, they would have gotten Alimayu, and I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have walked away from that.”</p><p>Yusuf closes his eyes. Of course this thick-headed noble selfless moron has considered it a point of pride to save the life of the nearest human, right when Yusuf is trying to work himself up to the prospect of betraying one. It’s not as if he <em>wants</em> Nile to lose her cousin, but he very badly wants to punch Nicolò in the nose or kiss him senseless, and he doesn’t know if he can do either of those things here. “Alimayu. Did he get away? Back to his village in Ethiopia with the others?”</p><p>“I think so.” Nicolò sits upright and groans. “The door was still open, and I saw him run through. But that was just before – ” He frowns. “Nile. Where’s Nile?”</p><p>“I’m trying to find her,” Yusuf says, which is the simplest explanation. “Nicolò, do you know where we are?”</p><p>“I have a suspicion.” Nicolò’s eyes flick around the room. After a long pause, he says only, “Are we safe here?”</p><p><em>I don’t know. </em>Yusuf wants to tell him that they are, to come up with some comforting lie, tell Nicolò not to do anything (else) stupid while he works out some brilliant plan. Instead he lifts his hand and sets it on Nicolò’s cool cheek, and doesn’t miss the way Nicolò’s head turns into it, the way the entire world seems to devolve down to that single point of contact between them, and the way this fleeting instant feels truer and stronger and more <em>real </em>than anything that has passed between him and Sa’id since their reunion. Their gazes lock, and Yusuf is seriously afraid he will say something he can’t take back. He pushes away a little too fast. “I am – I am glad to see that you are on the mend,” he says lamely. “I will – leave you to sleep now.”</p><p>With that, he flees through the door, all but slamming it behind him, and leans against it, panting. Ya Allah, it is so much worse than he thought. It’s bad enough that he screamed his lungs raw when he saw Nicolò get staked, after panicking over his little plunge, but this – no, no, no. All of Yusuf’s careful rationalizations about why it was a terrible idea to fall in love with a vampire, especially <em>this </em>vampire, and his assurances to himself that he was clever enough to never, ever do it, have gone up in literal smoke. If he’s honest with himself, this seed was planted at their very first meeting, and everything since has been a frantic and futile attempt to derail something that feels as transcendent and inevitable as galaxies and gravity, as time and death, as love and loss and life. He doesn’t know for sure if Nicolò feels the same, but –</p><p>Head spinning, Yusuf straightens up and forces himself to rearrange his face into something less openly maddened before he makes his way down the corridor to rejoin Sa’id. The prince looks at him placidly. “And how did you find the bloodsucker’s company?”</p><p>“Don’t <em>call </em>him that,” Yusuf snarls, ferociously enough to take even himself aback. It occurs to him an instant too late that Sa’id probably did so deliberately, exactly to see what his reaction was, and he bites his tongue. Feebly he says, “I am glad to see that he is on the mend.”</p><p>“Just as I promised.” Sa’id smiles. “Yes?”</p><p>Yusuf hesitates. Finally he says, “Yes.”</p><p>“Well then?” Sa’id makes a <em>what-are-you-waiting-for </em>gesture. “Now I suspect you wish to be conducted to the human girl. Which I wish as well, so that you may explain to her why it is the wisest and indeed <em>only </em>course of action to yield the Ring of Sulaiman to me. When that is concluded, your exile will be immediately revoked, and we can have a splendid banquet this very evening to welcome you home. All you have to do is say the word, my dearest. Yes?”</p><p>Yusuf closes his eyes again. He hates the shameful, weak, desperate impulse in himself, as it has been there all along, to do it. <em>Yes. </em> It would be that easy. Get everything that he himself has proclaimed to want. Go to Nile and – well, he suspects that it would be quite a bit more difficult than Sa’id arrogantly thinks, to winkle the Ring out of her, but nothing beyond his capabilities. Everything he has fought for is finally within his grasp. He can come back to Jerusalem. He can be with Sa’id. He can be a hero of the jinn. Everything. So easy. Just say it.</p><p>And yet, and <em>yet, </em>and <em>yet. </em> Perhaps that was why he insisted on seeing Nicolò. Perhaps he knew he was not strong enough to do this on his own, and that seeing the vampire’s stupid, beautiful face would be what he needed. <em>If I hadn’t jumped in the way, they would have gotten Alimayu. </em>And Nicolò has somehow managed to think all this time that he is a monster. It is, in the end, entirely that simple, and it bursts Yusuf’s heart and breaks it all at once. <em>Oh, </em>he thinks. <em>Oh, my love.</em></p><p>He opens his eyes, and turns around to face the beautiful golden prince, who for so long was the center of his entire universe. “I will do so,” he says. “As soon as you answer a few questions.”</p><p>“Oh?” For now, Sa’id still looks tolerantly amused. “Still wish to scrutinize me, do you?”</p><p>“For something like this, I would say that I do.” Yusuf looks him directly in the eye. “Why did you tell Barqan the Black about the Ring of Sulaiman?”</p><p>For an endless moment, the world holds its breath. Then the amusement drops off Sa’id’s face like ice, replaced by shock and disbelief. He snaps his fingers, and suddenly they’re in a different part of the palace altogether: Sa’id’s private rooms, the one place that nobody, not even his father, will dare to interrupt them. “I must have misheard,” Sa’id says, his cultured voice still calm, but straining at the seams. “Do you think you are accusing me of – what, exactly?”</p><p>“Back in the City of Carnelian.” It is too late to turn back. Yusuf is in it now. “Nile used the Ring to bind Wahdeliadj the ifrit to her will. She made him tell her what he knew about it. And he said that someone told both King Baldwin of Jerusalem and Barqan the Black about the existence of the Ring, that it was at large in the world again. He didn’t know who. Because you would not want anyone finding out that it was you, would you?”</p><p>“This is – ” Sa’id looks stunned. “Yusuf, this is preposterous. Why would I ever tell a frothing demon like Barqan about the Ring? Why would I take that risk? Anyone would expect that he would mount a terrible campaign to seize it at any cost. I would never – ”</p><p>“Exactly.” Yusuf almost laughs, as all the mysteries, the incoherencies, the questions, the things that have made no sense, have fallen open as clearly as a book split down the spine, all the answers there to be read on the page. “You <em>knew </em>that he would do whatever it took to get the Ring, especially if the humans were also involved. Faced with that level of potential threat – the Black King seizing it and overthrowing your father, or Baldwin of Jerusalem turning himself into the new Sulaiman – what djinn in our entire world would not panic and agree immediately that nobody but you could be more fitted to possess it? No matter what tribe they were, no matter what <em>species, </em>every creature on the winds of the world, if they heard anything about the Ring, would rush to deliver it into your humble and grateful hands. It’s diabolically brilliant, truly. You created your own enemy, you manipulated Barqan and Baldwin into looking for it in the first place, so everyone would have a clear demonstration of what you were saving them from. You have learned very well from your father, my <em>love.”</em></p><p>Sa’id stares back at Yusuf with a face like frozen glass. “You’re raving.”</p><p>“Am I?” Yusuf takes a step. “Who had Diyab the brass merchant killed? I’m guessing it was you. Either you hired him specifically to search the Temple Mount and look for the Ring, or he found it inadvertently, was supposed to hand it over to you, and then reneged and gave it to Nile instead. In neither case could he be permitted to live after such insolence, and there was always the risk of what he might say. So you disposed of him.”</p><p>Sa’id opens his mouth again, struggling for words, and cannot seem to manage them. Instead he utters a pale simulacrum of a disdainful scoff. “Why would I – ”</p><p>“And,” Yusuf goes on ruthlessly, “you’ve been summoning ghuls, haven’t you? Ordering them to attack Jerusalem? The very first night – those were what was after Nile, and as soon as I started talking to her, your forces turned up. Damriat captured us on the hillside. I didn’t think he could be the ifrit responsible for raising them, he’s just too stupid, but then, you have an endless supply at your command, don’t you? So you ordered ghuls raised to menace the streets of Jerusalem, to show what an awful threat was out there, some mysterious and unstoppable force, and you had them attack King Baldwin’s palace too, to be sure that he would refuse to ever stop looking for something more powerful than this ring he already has. Of course nobody else in the world except the Golden One, or his son, could unleash undead monsters into the Holy City, all the bloody ghosts that the Christians created themselves with their massacre. Perverse and fitting justice, even. Keep everything at a boil until you had the Ring, could swoop in and benevolently put it to an end, and nobody would ever question your family or your dynasty ever again. With, of course, the added benefit of proving that <em>you </em>were still the true rulers of Jerusalem, not these upstart Franks who would enslave us all again at the drop of a hat. I knew from the start that was what was the most important to you, Sa’id. Don’t lie.”</p><p>Sa’id stares back at Yusuf without a word. He still looks floored, but even in that, there is a growing flicker of defiance. He can no longer pretend that he has not been caught dead to rights, and he is a prince, he will not grovel or beg. “Very well,” he says, voice cold as ice, unlike anything Yusuf has ever heard from the man who loved him, the beautiful prince whose smile could light up his entire world. “Let us say that you are, hypothetically speaking, correct in your accusations. So what? What was I supposed to have done? The Ring of Sulaiman – it’s not a nice plaything for do-gooders who think they can use it to make flowers grow and poor men run in rivers of gold. It is a terrible and unforgiving weapon of war and destruction. There is no way to use it easily or safely. You take it, and you become – Sulaiman may have been an honored prophet and a great king, but he was a monster, Yusuf! A <em>monster, </em>at least for our people! He raised the humans to unmatchable heights by destroying our <em>entire race! </em>We were bridled, broken, yoked to a lash, forced to build a temple and a city and a world not our own, burned and branded, stripped of our power and our dignity and our souls! We were <em>slaves! </em>And yes, you say I’ve learned well from my father. I know his flaws! I know he is not what he should be! I know he would take the Ring and make himself even greater, and succumb to the same madness! If there was only one person who I trusted to have the Ring and not give into it, to keep it safe, and it was <em>me – ”</em></p><p>Yusuf flinches. He would say that Sa’id has quite a high opinion of himself, arrantly assuming himself to be the only djinn in the world who would not give into the glittering lure of ultimate power – not to mention setting up this entire insanely dangerous plan to acquire it by underhanded and murderous methods. But it’s also true that every single one of them has been determined to use the Ring somehow, to mend their personal difficulties, to get something out of possessing it, and Sa’id does truly seem to want to get rid of it once and for all, rather than risk the ruin of everything. That <em>is</em>, despite his dishonorable ways of going about it, a noble motive. Sa’id has struggled with the burden of loving the Golden One as a father while seeing his flaws as a king, has decided that he <em>has </em>to do it better, and it is true that Yusuf cannot imagine the weight of that. They stare at each other. Sa’id looks almost on the brink of tears. Then he says, “When I said that I wanted to hide it, never use it, when I asked you to fetch it the first time, did you think that I was lying to you? Have I ever lied to you about something like that?”</p><p>“No,” Yusuf admits, “but your father would still have – ”</p><p>“I am <em>not my father!” </em>Sa’id’s eyes flare, and all the lamps in the room burst to life with ravening golden flame, a reflection of the prince’s fury. “Judge me for my sins all you wish, but at least grant me the courtesy of seeing them for my own! I grow weary of your accusations and your hypocrisy and your blindness, Yusuf ibn Umar ibn Zawba’ah Abu Hasan al-Kaysani. Give me the Ring. Give me the Ring <em>now.”</em></p><p>A cold wind passes over the room, clutching Yusuf in its grasp and shoving him to his knees. Even that is not as bad as the shock. Sa’id has spoken his name, his true name, the way to force a djinn to obey you, to strip his will from him – the exact echo of the slave command that Sa’id was disdaining the humans and Sulaiman for using. And at that, in a small, perfect, terrible instant that absolutely shatters his heart, Yusuf knows that Sa’id is wrong. He means well – objectively speaking, the best out of everyone who wants the Ring. But he is wrong about himself, he is wrong about his high-minded notion that he will never give into the lust for power, he is wrong that everything he has done can be justified in the greater good of taking it for himself and making the decision as to what or what should not be done with it. He has just forced Yusuf, a man he has claimed to love more than anything, to obey him, and if that is how he treats his friends, his closest intimates – it is too late. It cannot be brought back. There will only be one outcome from here. As Yusuf himself knows, there always is.</p><p>It takes every drop of his concentration and his magic and his strength and his heart to resist the compulsion. It is Nicolò’s mouth on his, it is his brothers Muhammad and Ismail at his back, it is his mother Maryam’s bright-eyed look of curiosity about his friends and the way she has always loved him the most, it is Nile, and it is Yusuf himself. It is no longer Sa’id. It is no longer this life. It is no longer anything he ever thought, but it is.</p><p>Gasping, Yusuf says, “No.”</p><p>“No?” Sa’id looks even more furious. He raises his hand, and a dark wind begins to gather, furling around Yusuf’s limbs like whips. “This is your last chance. You will do everything in your power to force Nile to hand it over, or I will murder her <em>and </em>your precious Nicolò and burn their hearts, and see if that suffices to bind the Ring to me. Which do you choose? <em>Which?”</em></p><p>“Neither.” Yusuf forces his head up and looks Sa’id in the eye. “I choose them.”</p><p>“You think you were banished before?” Sa’id almost laughs, his face still begging Yusuf not to do this, but the rest of him is careering past the point of no return, just as he has convinced himself to do every other terrible thing thus far. “That is nothing, <em>nothing, </em>to what I will pronounce on you now. You will be cast out from every place where jinn gather, every magical city, everywhere with so much as a drop of our blood. You will be lower than a <em>nasnas, </em>than a dirt-blood, than a dog. You will never see your family again. You will never go back to Cairo. All the gates will be closed to you, all the paths shut off. You will have no tribe or clan, you will never be known again as one of the Banu Zawba’ah. Your memory will be damned and everyone who loved you will forget that you ever existed, except when they remember long enough to lament your failings and your folly. You will be nothing but pain and shame to them. <em>Nothing!”</em></p><p>The words tear through Yusuf to the back of his spine. As it is intended to, the sheer magnitude of the threat, of the entire life that Sa’id can rip away from him, almost makes him recant. But even then, there remains the knowledge that he cannot let this happen. It is better that he should sacrifice himself, if he will be nothing anyway, so that everyone else may live. So that Nile can keep the Ring and decide what to do with it on her own terms, rather than handing it over to Sa’id and the sure and certain knowledge that he will not be able to resist it. So that Nicolò can – Allah, it wrenches him to pieces – be happy someday, that haunted, miserable, kind, beautiful, incomparable man, even if it is not with him. It is what he deserves.</p><p>Yusuf ibn Umar ibn Zawba’ah Abu Hasan al Kaysani says again, “No.”</p><p>For an instant longer, he and Sa’id look at each other. Yusuf does not imagine that he could ever forget this moment, not when it is burned deep into his soul, his savagely broken heart. Sa’id’s lips form as if to breathe, <em>Please.</em></p><p>Then he says, “Very well. Goodbye forever.”</p><p>He pauses. His mouth twists.</p><p>“My love.”</p><p>Then he lowers his fist.</p><p>Then the dark wind snatches Yusuf up, enfolds him in a freezing maelstrom, throws him out of time and space and Jerusalem, out of everywhere altogether, and there is nothing more.</p><p>***</p><p>The first thing Nile knows is pain. It spreads through her in a dull, hot throbbing, gnawing like a toothless dog, nowhere to go inside her skin that can escape it, when it climbs through her veins and tangles around her bones and will not, stubbornly, do anything except hurt. It is urgent, summoning her back from the pleasant dark hinterland which she is very reluctant to be parted from. She resists as hard as she can, but it will not be denied. Awareness seeps through her like cold mud, rising toward the surface, and then all at once, with a gasp like a swimmer surfacing from the depths of the ocean, she wakes.</p><p>She stares at the ceiling for what feels like forever, trying to shake her scattered senses back into themselves, into any approximation of where they used to be. She is fairly certain that she is alive, though she has no idea why they aren’t all being scourged to death in the Black King’s throne room, and her entire body feels raw and burned. She tries to move, regrets it deeply as a bolt of pain lances through her, and falls back, gasping. What the <em>hell.</em></p><p>After another indeterminate while, memory begins to trickle back into the smashed vessel of her mind. She remembers that she had the Ring, she heard Yusuf screaming, and then everything went over the edge and she thought, for a mad moment, that Sebastien le Livre had somehow arrived in the City of Carnelian. Wherever they are now, Nile doesn’t think it is that, but she can’t be sure. She is lying in a relatively comfortable, airy room, on a bed with cushions. There is a goblet of water on the sideboard, and a plate of figs, baklava, and goat cheese. Everything is gilded in gold, and gauzy hangings are caught up with silver bands over handsome marble columns. Is this a palace? It looks like a palace. But whose?</p><p>Due to recent experiences, Nile is much less overawed by the splendid surroundings than she might otherwise have been, and she eyes the food and drink warily, wondering if it’s safe. She doesn’t feel quite as wretched as she did when she lost consciousness, which implies that there has been some amount of attention to her injuries, but once again, <em>why? </em>Who are these people (or likely, not <em>people </em>strictly speaking, if by that you mean humans) and what do they want?</p><p>“Hello?” Nile calls. Her voice is raw and rasping, but at least still recognizably hers. “Yusuf? Nicolò?” She pauses. “Muhammad? Ismail? <em>Alimayu?”</em></p><p>Nobody answers. The room remains still and sunlit and quiet. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and winces; that definitely does hurt, even if everything is no longer smashed to bits. She stands up, wobbly as a newborn foal, and teeters across the room, checking the door. It’s not locked, and she proceeds carefully out into the hall, though she’s equally unsure if she wants to go running around a strange place in bare feet. Should she call the Ring of Solomon, or is that like a lighthouse inviting God knows who to attack her? Maybe she should play dumb and harmless, at least until she knows more. That, or go back and –</p><p>“Hello, Nile.”</p><p>She jumps a foot, smashes her elbow painfully into the door frame, and whirls around – only to see, even more improbably, that she <em>wasn’t </em>mistaken. It’s the French soldier she met the very first night, the one looking for Diyab, Sebastien le Livre who goes by Booker. He’s watching her with those intent eyes, waiting to see if she remembers who he is, though he inclines his head in apology for startling her. They stare at each other, as Nile struggles to process what he can possibly be doing here. It’s no stranger than the fact that <em>she</em> is here, but –</p><p>“Hello,” she says, giving up on guessing. She’s just going to have to ask. “Where <em>are </em>we?”</p><p>“We’re in the palace of King al-Maḏhab, the Golden One, in Jerusalem.” Booker pauses. “You’re here because I helped rescue you and the others from the City of Carnelian. I’m here because I work for Prince Sa’id.”</p><p><em>Prince Sa’id. </em>Nile knows who that is. Yusuf trusts him, but Nicolò very decidedly does not, if their conversation back in the City of Iron was any indication. The Golden One’s eldest son seems like someone that it is best to approach with both eyes open and sugar cubes in both fists, and if she has ended up in al-Maḏhab’s court when she can actually see it, there must be a reason for it. Still, she isn’t about to gloss over what else Booker said. “You <em>work </em>for him?”</p><p>“Yes.” The Frenchman glances away, down the hall. “Though when you and I first met, I didn’t.”</p><p>Nile recalls something else from that conversation, how they were trying to puzzle out the mystery of Booker’s actual loyalties. “So why now?”</p><p>“Because – ” Booker’s eyes slide to her – “I was approached by the prince’s lieutenants and informed that you had acquired the Ring of Solomon. They believed I would be familiar with you, and it turned out that I was. If I found you and brought you here, I would have my first pick of rewards when the prince possessed the Ring. And I – I have to.” He looks at her imploringly, as if begging her to understand. “Everything’s going to be fixed.”</p><p>“When the prince possessed the Ring.” Nile is aware that Sa’id wants the Ring, has (according to Yusuf) wanted it all along, but that was also why Yusuf didn’t just turn her in the very first time they were here. Technically he couldn’t yet be certain that she did have the Ring, but he was frank about his desire to prevent the Golden One from accumulating any more power, and besides, Nile very much has plans to possess the Ring herself. She needs to find Yusuf and Nicolò, she isn’t about to pass the Ring over to their host in gratitude for a conveniently timed rescue, and the look in Booker’s eyes is a little too desperate. Finally she says, “So you just happened to know that we were in the City of Carnelian and needed help?”</p><p>“I… suspected.” Booker’s lips go tight. “It wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that you went there to rescue your kinsmen, would it?”</p><p>“Thank you for saving my life,” Nile says. No matter what else came of it, or for what reasons, he did do that much at least, and she is not so ungracious to neglect to acknowledge it. He looks startled, especially when she goes on, “So you knew about my kinsmen?”</p><p>“I was there when Stephen de Méric brought them to King Baldwin’s court and arranged for them to be turned over to Wahdeliadj al-Barqan, yes.” Booker stops again. “Then when I had to get the witches out of there, that was another – ”</p><p>“Andromache and Quynh?” Perhaps it is no surprise that they’re all tangled up in this, orbiting the same star. “Get them where? Are they here?”</p><p>There’s another pause. Then Booker says, “Yes. I had them brought to the palace too, just as I promised. There was medicine to help Andromache, since she was… she was hurt, and – ”</p><p>“I want to talk to them.” Nile doesn’t yet know what’s going, but she has not forgotten that Andromache and Quynh claimed to know the Queen of Saba, at their first meeting back in the desert oasis. Nile has questions which she suspects only they can answer, and she needs them before her narrow window of opportunity closes. If she has been brought here, as Booker keeps putting it, it wasn’t just out of altruistic desire not to see them get squashed by the Black King like insects. They want something. Prince Sa’id wants something. And Nile suspects, since there’s really only one thing that it can be, that she knows exactly what that is. How long she has left before they revoke the honey and bring out the vinegar, she can’t be sure, but she has no time to waste. “If you would be so kind.”</p><p>Booker looks at her, surprised and guarded; they can both tell from her tone of voice that it is not a request. But he nods once, takes her arm, and escorts her down the hall. The place is beautiful, glittering with gold in every nook and cranny, but it feels eerily magnificent and removed and impersonal to Nile. For all the splendor that jinn magic can conjure, she is no longer taken in by appearances. Even if this looks like a place of ease and rest, the end of all their dangerous adventures, she has a feeling that they have finally arrived at the very heart of the fire, the spiderweb from which all the strands spin out. She must be ten times as careful.</p><p>After a few moments, Booker pushes through a door and steps down into a walled garden, thick with lush trees and beds of flowers. Bees hum and birds chatter, the light is green and gold, and water trickles from a clay fountain, contorting itself into leaping animals of water. At the far side, sitting in a chair with bandages wrapped around her torso and looking just as wary of all this sybaritic splendor, sits Andromache of Scythia, her long dark hair loose and hanging down her back. At their approach she starts upright, makes a move as if to go for a weapon, and winces. “You,” she starts to Booker, hotly. “If you don’t tell me right now exactly why they had the exact antidote for that curse – ”</p><p>At that moment she sees Nile, and her jaw sags. She’s too self-possessed to gape, however, and snaps her mouth shut with a click. “Nile Nesanet,” she says. “So you’re here too, is that it?”</p><p>“She asked to see you,” Booker informs Andromache. “I’ll leave you to it, shall I?”</p><p>With that, he strides away, boots crunching, as Nile and Andromache stare at each other and try to figure out what in hellfire to say. Finally, Nile nods awkwardly at Andromache’s wounded side. “Are you – what happened?”</p><p>“I’m still trying to figure that out.” It’s clear that Andromache hates not being in charge of this situation, and she hisses when she moves too quickly. “We were at Rabbi Samuel’s house, he tended to me after I was wounded. Then he saw something in a magical bowl, and that made Booker run off, said he had somewhere to go and that everything would be fixed when he got back. Then he returned and said that we were going to the palace of al-Maḏhab. I was in no state to stop him, so Quynh and I did come here. They had a suspiciously effective treatment for my wound, removing the curse from the golden weapon, and – ”</p><p>At that, she stops. A look of total and complete exasperation crosses her face. Then she says, “Oh, son of a – mother<em>fucking </em>hell. Of course. Of <em>course.”</em></p><p>“What?” Nile says. “What?”</p><p>“I thought,” Andromache says, biting the words off, “that I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. I thought it was some minion of the Black King who wounded me, because he has an affinity with gold. He does have a Castle of Gold, but how stupid did I have to be, did we <em>all </em>have to be, to overlook <em>the literal Golden One who is the king of Jerusalem? </em>Of course I didn’t see who shot me. Some djinn in al-Maḏhab’s service, invisible to humans, who hit me with a cursed golden weapon, wounded me, ensured that I needed Booker’s help and that we wouldn’t really have a choice except to come here, into their power – ” She curses again. “That fucking <em>bastard! </em>If this is on Sa’id’s orders – ”</p><p>“What?” Nile can’t follow all of this, but it sounds as if Andromache thinks she was wounded by one of al-Maḏhab’s servants on purpose, with Booker then perfectly positioned to stage yet another highly convenient rescue. Create the threat, get credit for removing it, a simple and yet dangerously effective strategy. “Why did they want you too?”</p><p>She can imagine that Andromache is a valuable strategic piece to possess in the ordinary course of things: an immortal witch, someone who knew the original bearer of the Ring and its dangers, a sort of expert advisor who could be coaxed or coerced into confessing everything about Solomon and ancient Jerusalem, and whatever else. But instead, Andromache lets out a grim laugh. “I usually don’t bother to ask myself why people would want something from me. But in this case, despite my other uses, I think I was snatched specifically to help them get to you. They figured out that I knew you or would be able to draw you out, and when Booker said he wanted a deal, he meant for me to find you. But then the rabbi helpfully came along and did it for him. It’s about <em>you</em>, Nile. More than any of the rest of us.”</p><p>Right, Nile decides. She needs to find Yusuf and Nicolò as soon as possible, and that means she needs to ask Andromache what she has come to ask her, very fast. “So, about that. You said that you knew the Queen of Sheba. Back when we met you after Petra.”</p><p>“Yes.” Andromache doesn’t flinch from it, doesn’t beat around the bush. Just states it, simply and plainly. “We were her servants. Among other things.”</p><p>Nile takes a deep breath. “Am I her descendant? Hers and Solomon’s. I am, aren’t I? That’s why I can wield the Ring. That’s why Diyab gave it to me. I – I’m their heiress. <em>Princess.”</em></p><p>Andromache eyes her without answering, looking downright impressed. Then she says, “Did you work that out on your own?”</p><p>“I… I think so. More or less.” Nile thinks back to Yusuf’s questions about her family in Cairo, if they had any connection with King Menelik. Is <em>this</em> what he was getting at? “Am I?”</p><p>Andromache shrugs. “Yes,” she says, just as bluntly. “I suspected the first time we met, but I couldn’t be completely certain until I heard what you did with the Ring. Solomon and Makeda had a son, as you may know, named Menelik. He was born in his mother’s country, visited his father in Jerusalem as a grown man, and the legend goes that Solomon begged him to take over and rule Israel in his place. But Menelik refused, so he returned to Ethiopia, became king, and brought the Ark of the Covenant as a gift from his father. That’s why it’s rumored to be hidden in the islands of Lake Tsana. Where you are from.”</p><p>Nile sits there with her mouth open. She was vaguely aware of some parts of this story, but having it all put together is still slightly staggering. Diyab told her the first time they met, when he gave her the Ring. <em>One of Mother Makeda’s children thinking that magic isn’t real? </em>While she is sometimes known as Bilqis, the Queen of Sheba’s name in Ethiopian legend is Makeda. Her son with Solomon was the founder of the Ethiopian royal dynasty and hence Nile’s distant progenitor, and that means that Nile herself has been hand-picked to take both of her ancestors’ places. She has her great-many-times grandfather’s Ring, she has her great-many-times grandmother’s blood. She can proclaim herself Queen of Ethiopia (and also of Jerusalem) and overthrow the Zagwe dynasty, who are often thought to be usurpers for ending the Aksumites. She could scour out the Franks as well, Baldwin of Boulogne and his rapacious entourage, any hint of the crusader kingdom. Is that why she’s been chosen? To be a judge, a queen, a prophet, a sorceress, a warrior, greater than anyone and anything? To sit on high in matchless splendor, in a palace very much like this one, and play dice with the lives of jinn and men? <em>Everyone?</em></p><p>It sends a cold, horrified, bone-deep shudder through Nile, until all she knows is that she doesn’t want it. That’s not her, that’s not who she wants to be. The Ring is a wonderful thing for everyone who wants something, which is – well, everyone. That was why Solomon was swarmed with petitioners, why he spent his life besieged with everyone who coveted all the bounty the Ring could give them, why nobody else could be trusted to bear it. Yet for one reason or another, it’s back in the world, and Nile is Solomon’s heir. So – <em>what?</em></p><p>“You look like you’re about to throw up.” Andromache evaluates her critically, though it seems to be mixed with a crumb of true concern. “Worked it out, have you?”</p><p>Nile’s lips are numb. “Yes.”</p><p>“Ah.” The witch’s face turns wry. “I don’t envy you that.”</p><p>“What am I supposed to do?” Nile bursts out. If this ageless woman did know her distant ancestress, stood in Makeda’s presence and looked on her face and recognized her, Nile, the moment she saw her in the desert… it just seems like someone so unfathomably older than her, who has seen and done so much, must surely have the answers. “I can’t – I can’t do this!”</p><p>Andromache considers for a long moment. Something inward, painful, tender and raw flickers across her face. Then she reaches out and puts a hand on Nile’s shoulder, startling her. “I knew a man named Lykon once,” she says very softly, as if the grief still kicks in her lungs and coils around her chest. “He was from the Horn of Africa too, by the way. He and Quynh and I, we were very dear companions for a long time. He was like a son to us. You might be Solomon and Makeda’s heir, but you remind me of him. He had that same goodness in him, that same way he refused any power that he didn’t feel entitled to. When he died…”</p><p>She trails off, her eyes staring somewhere far past Nile, the garden, Jerusalem, the world itself. Finally she says, “He wasn’t afraid. He had lived for almost a thousand years, but he accepted that it was his time to go, that he had done everything that he could. I don’t know if I could, I don’t know if anyone else could. I know you want me to tell you what to do, but I can’t. You have to decide that for yourself, Nile. Don’t let anybody take that away from you.”</p><p>Nile opens her mouth, determined to argue, to beg Andromache to do it anyway, to give it her best guess. She is just a nineteen-year-old human girl who had never been so far from home when she arrived in Jerusalem the first time. If the fate of the world rests on her, on <em>her </em>choice, it seems as if they’re already doomed. She’s not that important. She’s not that special.</p><p>(And yet, it seems, she is.)</p><p>A shadow seems to pass over the garden, a coldness, even though the sun is still shining brightly. Andromache and Nile look at each other, and some sort of unspoken, poignant recognition passes between them. Then Nile bows her head, and gets to her feet. “I need to find my friends now. But what about you? If I leave you here like this – ”</p><p>Andromache gives her a crooked, enigmatic smile. “Quynh and I will tend to ourselves. As we always do. Don’t hold back on our account.”</p><p>“All right.” Nile pauses. “If you’re sure – ”</p><p>“I’m sure.” Andromache’s voice doesn’t leave any room for questions. “Go.”</p><p>Nile hesitates a final instant, then does as told. Like Eve from Eden, she leaves the garden, hurrying up the steps on the far side and pushing open the door in the wall. This leads back into the palace corridors, but she stops before she steps in, trying to decide what to do. Obviously, she needs to be discreet. Not just running in, Ring blazing, and overpowering whatever is in her way, tempting as it is. She needs to find Yusuf. If any of them have been accorded an actual welcome, it must be him. Sa’id is his friend. He’ll know – something.</p><p>Trying her best to look inconspicuous, Nile slips into the flow of foot traffic. She’s human, obviously, but – she thinks of her conversation with Sameer, back in Cairo – she can probably pass as a half-blood, and that means that nobody looks particularly hard at a servant. This still irritates her deeply, but since it’s working in her favor, she decides to view it as a boon. Unfortunately, however, someone is bound to notice her eventually, and she can’t just go wandering over the entire palace. Calling the Ring has to be a last resort. She hasn’t been this alone, or this far from Yusuf, since she plunged headlong into the magical world. It’s unsettling.</p><p>Nile’s increasingly circular peregrinations take up over an hour and do not find Yusuf. They do get her rebuked by the chamberlain for looking insufficiently occupied, so she does something chore-related rather than speak up and blow her cover, then slips off. She ends up in a low, dark corridor, senses something familiar in the room up ahead, and puts on a burst of speed. She reaches the door, knocks, pushes it ajar, and peers in. “Yusuf?”</p><p>It’s not Yusuf. It’s Nicolò, who is just getting to his feet and looking set to make an escape of his own, and a wash of abject relief crashes over Nile. Forgetting caution, she speeds inside and actually hugs the vampire, startling him deeply, until he closes his arms over her shoulders and hugs her back. When they pull apart, they say in unison, “Where’s Yusuf?”</p><p>“You don’t know?” Nile frowns. “You haven’t – ?”</p><p>“I saw him earlier,” Nicolò says. “Only briefly. He said that he was trying to find you. Then he left with Prince bloody Sa’id, and – I don’t know. I just think something’s – ”</p><p>Nile wonders if they have time for her to unburden everything that Booker told her earlier, about how Sa’id hired him to retrieve her personally, that he’s supposedly the reason they are all now prisoners in the palace. “The witches are here too,” she says. “Andromache and Quynh. I saw Andromache, we spoke. If you had some kind of arrangement with them from earlier, they might still be willing to help you, right? I don’t know if you think this is as suspicious as I do, but we need to get out of here. Andromache’s wounded, but – ”</p><p>Just as Nicolò is frowning at her in alarm or confusion, the door opens again behind them, and he snaps to attention faster than Nile has ever seen anyone react to anything. He moves even faster, shoving her behind him, even as she’s about to protest that between the two of them, <em>she </em>is the one who wields the Ring of Solomon. It’s immediately evident what has sparked this response. Nile has supposedly met the man before, but this is the first time she has actually seen him in the flesh, and there’s nobody else that it can be. For a beautiful, powerful djinn prince, Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab looks wild-eyed, disheveled, on the brink of doing something drastic. The door slams in its frame as he shuts it. “Stay back, vampire.”</p><p>Nicolò snarls at him. His eyes are pitch-black, his fangs bared, and there is only the faintest vestige of his usual gentle self in his face. <em>“Where’s Yusuf?”</em></p><p>“We are, indeed, about to discuss that.” Sa’id is breathing heavily, and he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “I gave him a choice to do the sensible thing, and he refused. He decided instead to leave you two to die and run away to save himself. That being so, I see no reason, unfortunately, to delay this. You, girl. You don’t have to make his mistake. Give me the Ring of Sulaiman.”</p><p><em>“What?” </em>Nile goggles at him. “Yusuf did – he did <em>what?”</em></p><p>“He ran away. He left you two here.” Sa’id looks unstrung, horrified, almost sick. “That shows how much he truly cares for a human and a vampire, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“No.” Nicolò shakes his head. “No. You’re lying. He wouldn’t do that.”</p><p>Sa’id utters a hollow, barking laugh with absolutely no mirth whatsoever. “And you know him so well after – what, a month? A month which, it seems, has been mostly occupied with finding the most inventive ways to drive each other mad? You can never compete with me, bloodsucker. I have known him, loved him, for nearly forty years, and his heart will only ever belong to me. If he cared for you two at all, he would not have gone. But he went.” His shoulders heave in a muffled, wracking sob, as if something is about to explode out of him, and then even more terrifyingly, it is shut back in its cage. Sa’id straightens up. “I did not want to do this. By the Sacred Flame, I did not. But Yusuf chose for you to die, so – ”</p><p>He draws a golden knife out of his robes, etched in strange glyphs and pulsing with what Nile recognizes immediately as an even more powerful version of whatever curse was lingering around Andromache. This must be the full-strength version of the cursed golden weapon that the witch was talking about, that she was hit with in order to require her to need Booker’s assistance. Nile knows in that instant that it can kill both her and Nicolò very effectively, and she tries to get around his arm; Nicolò is still resolutely holding her behind him. That technically makes sense, since he’s the vampire and she’s the human, but if she can just call up the Ring – though she can’t shake the feeling that is exactly what Sa’id wants her to do –</p><p>“Why,” Nile says, when neither Nicolò or Sa’id make another sound. She strives to sound reasonable. “Why do we have to die?”</p><p>“Because the Ring of Sulaiman cannot be used.” Sa’id looks furious that he has to explain this at all. “Not by anyone, but especially not by you. Because I will die myself before I let you turn into that vile monster, rising to the pinnacle of power in order to crush the jinn to dust beneath your dainty sandaled feet. No more, do you hear me? Have we not suffered enough because of humans? The price was paid and paid and paid! <em>No more!”</em></p><p>Nile stares at him. So far as she understands Sa’id’s rant, she – well, she can’t say he’s entirely wrong. She was herself just thinking that she didn’t want to be Solomon, she didn’t want to build her power that way, and as the crown prince to the High King of Jerusalem, Sa’id is entirely within his rights to fear that any new human bearer of the Ring will hasten to enslave the jinn all over again. Nile herself was outraged at the half-bloods’ predicament and might have punished the purebloods who held them in bondage – even if it was a noble motive, it would be very hard to tell, and it certainly would not be viewed as such by those she punished. In Sa’id’s mind, he is making a terrible but necessary choice in order to prevent the Ring of Solomon from ever finding a new master. To save his people, to keep them free, even those who do not belong to the Banu Maḏhab, even those who hate him. Nile can understand this a little too well, and she cannot hate Sa’id for what he’s done. Indeed, she takes a step forward. “Your Highness, please, let’s talk about this. I don’t think I’m who you think I am. We could discuss this, come to some kind of arrangement. You don’t have to be afraid of me. Just tell us where Yusuf is.”</p><p>“As I said.” Sa’id’s shoulders tremble. “Yusuf is gone. He made his choice to abandon me, to abandon you, to turn his back on our people in their greatest hour of need. I am shedding no tears over him, and nor should you. He is dead to me and dead to all of us. Do not – <em>no closer!”</em></p><p>Nile flinches back, not quite in time, as Sa’id lashes out with the golden knife, and a searing flash of pain burns across her left shoulder. She stumbles back, pressing her hand to the wound; it’s shallow but it hurts a lot, and several fat drops of blood splash on the floor. Nicolò seems to struggle very hard not to turn his head or take any notice of it, trembling at the edge of his self-control, but still unwilling to let himself give in. Keeping his eyes militantly forward, he addresses Sa’id. “I swear, if you killed Yusuf – ”</p><p>“I did not kill him. I loved him. I love him still. I did not want this.” Sa’id raises the knife, warning Nicolò that if he leaps at him, he’s next. “He has left me no choice. You, girl. Call the Ring of Sulaiman, and then give it with all your heart to me, anoint me as its rightful owner and master. Or I will kill you both here and now.”</p><p>Nile and Nicolò exchange a helpless look. Nile supposes she <em>can </em>call the Ring and bind Sa’id with it – he’s a djinn, it will work on him the same as any member of his kind, and she already knows the basic principle thanks to Wahdeliadj. But if she does that, she smashes to bits any claim that she’s not Solomon, or would never act like him, no matter what she was just trying to argue to the contrary. Sa’id is not a giant fiery ifrit, not the Night Riders’ captain and the Black King’s right-hand demon. He is a man, a desperate prince trying to save his people, terrified of human enslavement and the unthinkable destruction that rained down on them last time. Yusuf loved him, once upon a time, and Nile believes that Sa’id does love him too, even if not how he thinks. If she puts the magical shackles on him, drives him to his knees, <em>breaks </em>him – obviously she can’t let him kill her and Nicolò, but if she becomes Solomon in that instant, bound to a terrible destiny, and she can’t ever turn her back on it –</p><p>Her shoulder bleeds. She can feel the curse taking root in it. She’s not sure that she’s able to channel the Ring’s magic a second time; the first time almost killed her, and it’s so strong that it simply cannot be used on a lower setting, cannot be made any less powerful than it is. Her body is still sore and burned and broken, and as she and Nicolò stare down Sa’id with nowhere to go, nothing left, Nile thinks of one last thing. One last wish.</p><p>She looks at Nicolò. Mouths, <em>Trust me.</em></p><p>Without hesitation, his eyes never leaving hers, he nods.</p><p>As Sa’id starts to lunge forward, golden knife upraised, Nile thinks of how the very first djinn she captured with the Ring was Yusuf, how he owes her a third and final wish, how as long as she has that contract outstanding, it has to be carried out, because the law of Solomon decrees it so. No matter what, no matter where, even if Yusuf himself is not here. The Ring is, however, and Nile raises her hands, calling to it. It blazes into existence on her finger, as a look of awe and rage and horror crosses Sa’id’s face. The knife plunges toward her chest – bites in – <em>Jesus, </em>pain and pain and pain, enough so Nile can barely speak –</p><p>– but she does.</p><p>“I wish,” she says in a rush, not daring to pause for breath, “that Nicolò di Genova and myself were with Yusuf ibn Umar ibn Zawba’ah Abu Hasan al-Kaysani, wherever in the world he is, and that neither Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab, nor any other jinn, nor supernatural creature of any sort, could find us there, or follow us, or know anything of us whatsoever, especially not the Ring of Solomon, or anything pertaining to it.”</p><p>There, see. She’s finally getting better about the wishes. Specific. Covering everything.</p><p>For a moment more, she sees Sa’id’s stark, shocked, furious face.</p><p>A moment after that, everything is gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing Nicolò knows is snow. He has, of course, traveled like this once before – snatched out of time and sense and space, shut up in one leaf of a book and opened on another page entirely, somewhere very, very far from wherever he just knew himself to be. In that case, it was being wished out of the cave to Cairo, and the overwhelming sensation was sand. He is not sure if snow is an improvement. He doesn’t usually feel cold, but he definitely feels this. It could have something to do with the fact that he has recently been badly wounded, staked by the Night Riders and nearly killed by Yusuf’s former lover, but even if Nicolò was entirely right not to trust Sa’id, he cannot take much joy in the victory. He doesn’t know where he is – not the Sphinx, that much is clear. He doesn’t know where Nile is, though she was hanging onto him as the wish took them. He <em>certainly </em>doesn’t know where Yusuf is, and the prince’s terrible words echo in his head. <em>Yusuf is gone. He made his choice to abandon me, to abandon you, to turn his back on our people in their greatest hour of need. I am shedding no tears over him, and nor should you.</em></p><p>No, <em>no. </em>Nicolò does not know anything else right now, but he is utterly convinced that Yusuf did not, <em>would </em>not, abandon them like that. Yet he remembers how Yusuf left in a hurry, mouthing excuses about how he would leave Nicolò to sleep, just after Nicolò had asked him if they were safe in Sa’id’s palace. If somehow he is wrong, if Yusuf <em>did –</em></p><p>As much to get away from the terrifying possibility of that thought as anything, Nicolò wrenches his eyes open. At first he fears his eyes must not have made the trip with him, because all he sees is black, and then all he sees is white. As his vampiric night vision belatedly kicks in, it reveals blue-glass giants of ice tumbled in deadly beautiful seracs, a vast glacial snowfield, frozen boulders, towering bare cliffs, and the most monstrous mountains that Nicolò has ever seen. He is from northern Italy, he has journeyed through the Tyrolean Alps a time or two, but even they have nothing on this eerie, jagged wonderland. Enormous pyramids of black rock and striated snow rise so high that they almost seem to touch the stars, crowned with distant white scarves of wind. He is standing in a lower glen, a pass between two taller peaks, and so far as anything about this situation can be called <em>lucky, </em>they are fortunate that it is summer, and they did not arrive in the depths of a howling winter snowstorm. Nonetheless, it is freezing, the air is sharp and thin as a knife where it screams over the talus, and Nicolò, wounded as he is, can feel it bite. And if even he, the cold-blooded vampire, is in this vulnerable estate, then the others –</p><p>He whirls around, staring wildly across the mountainside. He can make out a dark shape sprawled out on the rocks, and sprints over, kneeling at her side and shaking her in something close to panic. “Nile? <em>Nile!”</em></p><p>She doesn’t stir. There’s something dark and sticky under her, splashed across the rocks, and Nicolò knows what it is by scent even before he turns her over and sees the spreading wounds in her shoulder and chest. The sight of the blood does not tempt him with hunger at all; it repulses him, seizing him in total and abject fear that she is about to die right here, right in front of him. “Nile.” He grips her face between his hands, willing her to wake up. “Nile, look at me.”</p><p>At last, taking far too long for it to be a good sign, her eyelashes flutter. They open the rest of the way, she stares up at him with her gaze fogged in pain, and it takes a tremendous effort for her to turn her head, gaping at their mammoth, wild, alien surroundings. “Where…?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Nicolò helps her sit, very carefully. “Mountains, somewhere. You wished for us to be with Yusuf, so perhaps he is – ”</p><p>He cuts off that sentence, afraid to say anything more. He doesn’t know where they are, but if Sa’id was lying about Yusuf leaving of his own free will, this is a perfect place to exile a disobedient djinn. They are fire-blooded creatures of the desert. How long can one survive out here in the high mountains, the dark and freezing night? Yusuf has magic, obviously. He can make a fire, keep himself going for a while, and is not about to meekly lie down and die in some dark cave. But it’s plain that the cold and the wild and the endless labyrinth is meant specifically to make him suffer. Christ. Nicolò is going to <em>murder </em>Sa’id at the next possible instant.</p><p>“Where’s Yusuf?” Nile mutters, thinking the same thing. “Do you see anyone?”</p><p>“No.” Nicolò could range afield to search, but he is very reluctant to leave Nile alone with nothing to keep warm, especially when he does not like those wounds. “Can you stand up?”</p><p>He slides his arm under hers, supporting her to her feet, and while Nile makes it, she sways and leans heavily on him, almost losing her balance. He wants to urge her to use the Ring to heal herself, but he’s not sure that that wouldn’t make it worse. She’s already in such bad shape that doing even moderate magic with it might finish her off, burn her up like a twist of sulfur. Nicolò recalls reading in all his research about the Ring that it exacted a fearsome price on Solomon, that it was physically agonizing to bear, and without the dazzling, handsome glamour that it conferred on him, he became increasingly broken and aged and pained. The most powerful magical weapon of all time, God’s personal gift, does not come without an indescribable cost.</p><p>They try to walk, slipping on the icy stones, but they don’t get very far. Nile moans in pain and bends over, coughing up blood. “Just leave me. I’ll think of something. Find Yusuf, don’t – ”</p><p>“No. Are you crazy? Of course I’m not abandoning you.” Nicolò shifts his grip, lifting Nile fully onto his back. “Hold on to me, I’ll carry you. We’ll make better time this way.”</p><p>Nile murmurs incoherently, but does so, as Nicolò hitches her up, she wraps her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist, and rests her head on the back of his neck. He barely notices her weight. He takes a deep breath, feels the air prickle all the way down like icy knives, and grimaces. It has been a long time since he felt able to honestly pray, but he does so now. <em>Help us, Jesu. I know I was never as good a servant to You as I should have been, did not become a priest for honorable reasons, did not hold my trust faithfully and against all odds. But I need You now. Please.</em></p><p>It echoes out into the dark and snow that never ends, and he cannot tell if anyone at all has heard. No time to wait. Nicolò squares his shoulders, thinks briefly of how he ran wild in the mountains outside Acquasanta on his first night as a vampire, and starts to move.</p><p>He can cover a decent amount of ground at this speed, though he still has no idea where he’s going. He has to take care with his footing, crossing the jumble of the glacier, skirting warily where the snow is too thin from summer melt and barely holds together over an endless dark crevasse. The waning moon hangs in the sky as a thin silver crescent, reflecting eerily on the massive snow-covered faces of the surrounding peaks, bathing everything in an unearthly glow. Nile murmurs a comment once or twice, but quickly stops moving or speaking, and Nicolò keeps twisting his head back in terror to ensure that she is still breathing. They can’t go too far. He needs to find somewhere to look after her. And do – and do <em>what?</em></p><p>He begins to wonder if Nile’s wish should have been even more specific, if they are in the same mountain range as Yusuf but nowhere near where he actually landed, and in that case, they could search for days or weeks without finding him. Time which, it goes without saying, Nile does not have to spare. He can feel her blood soaking into his tunic; she’s dressed in her light clothes from Jerusalem, laughably insufficient for this climate, and that was even reckoning without her numerous and serious wounds. The Devil take him, <em>what </em>has Sa’id done?</p><p>Just as Nicolò is teetering on the verge of total despair, he catches sight of a small, earthbound spark, somewhere in the maze of boulders ahead. He blinks hard, in case it’s a trick or a reflection of the starlight or something else, but it remains steady, begins to gain form and coherence and color, and he’s almost positive that it’s a fire. He breaks into a run – it could be just some wandering nomad or lost sheepherder bunking down for the night, but he knows somehow that it’s not. Nile moans as he jounces her, he tries to soften his landings as he leaps from boulder to boulder, and on the far side, he can see a small dark figure standing up in alarm, hands blazing with matching fireballs. This is all the proof Nicolò needs, and in a few instants more, he hurdles a small creek, ducks under a fragile, wind-blasted rime of granite edged in icicles the size of clubs, and falls into Yusuf al-Kaysani’s desperate, disbelieving arms.</p><p>They kiss so hard that they knock each other’s limited wind out, Nicolò tangling his arms around Yusuf and Yusuf gripping him so hard that it feels like he might leave bruises, twirling and staggering and falling backward over the stones. “How – ” Yusuf keeps gasping over and over, a constant litany of breathless shock. <em>“How are you here?!”</em></p><p>“We had to come find you.” Nicolò, coming up for air at last (he hopes that Nile kept her eyes closed, even if her tender sensibilities are rather low on their list of present concerns), wipes his mouth and stares at Yusuf, afraid the snowy, shivering djinn might vanish if he looks away too long. “What – <em>where</em> – ?”</p><p>“The Tian Shan, I think.” Yusuf’s teeth are chattering, and it seems to take him a terrible effort to speak. “The Mountains of Heaven, somewhere outside Kashgaria, between the Kyrgyz and China. If that’s the case, the Karakhanids rule the humans around here, and Al-Abyad, the White King, rules the jinn.”</p><p>Nicolò can’t say that he’s surprised, as this place is nothing but bleak, blasted, endless whiteness. “And is Al-Abyad an ally of the Golden One, or…?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Yusuf wraps his arms around himself. He seems stunned, diminished, shadowed, torn apart. “Let’s go back to the fire.”</p><p>Nicolò follows him to the struggling flames, scraped together in the lee of the overhanging rock, and swings Nile off his back, urging her to sit close to it. Her eyes are shut, and she stirs only sluggishly when he raps her on the cheek; he realizes in horror that she’s barely aware of anything. “Nile. Nile. Nile! Look. Look, we found Yusuf! He’s here, we’re together. Nile. <em>Nile.”</em></p><p>“What?” she whispers at last, struggling to focus on Yusuf, who rubs his hands together to generate heat and starts chafing her limbs, trying to warm her up. “Yusuf? What <em>happened?”</em></p><p>“Sa’id – ” Yusuf can’t seem to finish the sentence. At last he says only, “He betrayed me.”</p><p>Nicolò feels no inclination to gloat over it, to say anything that might rub salt in the wound. “And banished you here? To <em>China?” </em>Even if the prince was especially furious, it seems extreme.</p><p>“So it seems.” Yusuf’s lips barely move. He might not be as physically wounded as Nicolò and Nile, but he is clearly mentally shattered, unable to comprehend anything that just happened. “Sa’id was – he was responsible for it. For everything. He had Diyab killed when the Ring slipped through his fingers, he told Barqan and Baldwin about it, he arranged the ghuls to attack Nile and the city – he said he wanted to keep the Ring from ever being used, and I don’t think he was lying, but he would have – he would have given into it, he compelled me, he – ”</p><p>“Shh. <em>Shh.” </em>Since the milk is well and truly spilled where kissing is concerned, Nicolò grips Yusuf’s face between his hands, waits until his staring eyes regain some focus, and kisses him again, on the forehead and then on the mouth. “It doesn’t matter now, all right? We need to work out what we’re doing next, how the hell we’re getting out of this place.”</p><p>“I felt the wish.” Yusuf looks at Nile. “The third wish. You used it, didn’t you? That’s how you found me. How you got here.”</p><p>Nile is fading badly, but she manages a slurred acknowledgement. Yusuf keeps rubbing her arms and legs, trying to force warmth into her, even as he gapes at the ugly knife wounds, crusted with frozen blood. “What are these?”</p><p>“Later.” Nicolò doesn’t think Yusuf needs to deal with that in addition. “She was – she was hurt while we were escaping Jerusalem. Apparently Andromache said – never mind.”</p><p>“The Ring.” Yusuf looks at Nile urgently. “You could use the Ring, couldn’t you?”</p><p>“It works by… binding a spirit.” Nile spits a pained bubble of blood onto the icy rocks. “If I put you under thrall again, when you’ve just gotten free of me, it could – ”</p><p>“I don’t care,” Yusuf says, a little recklessly. “If that’s what you need to do – bind me and order me to heal you, then do it. I don’t think I’ll have enough magic to do it on my own otherwise, not unless you link me up with the Ring’s full power. There’s some kind of curse on these wounds that I’ve never felt. I don’t know how to undo it.”</p><p>“That’s what Andromache said,” Nile agrees, managing a nod. “Cursed wounds.”</p><p>“Here.” Yusuf lifts her hand, in expectation of her calling the Ring. “Go on, do it. I don’t care, all right? It can be another three wishes, however many. If that’s what you choose – ”</p><p>“No.” Nile coughs. It sounds wet and tearing in her chest. “That’s not what I want.”</p><p>“It can’t be that you want to die!” Nicolò surprises everyone with the raw fear in his voice, the flashbacks stealing up behind his eyes, the memory of the mob in the street outside his sister Caterina’s house, the way they shouted for her, the way the door smashed as it broke, and the mayhem and carnage that resulted. “Try!”</p><p>Nile looks at him, takes a shuddering breath, and focuses hard. Her hand glows, the Ring of Solomon burns into existence in all its golden glory, and she looks at Yusuf, who looks back at her, waiting to be bound to it again, if that’s what it takes. She raises her hand, then drops it. “No, I can’t. I can’t save myself by enslaving you again.”</p><p>“It’s not enslaving if I’m asking you to do it.” Yusuf steadies her shaking hand. “Come on, Nile.”</p><p>She stares at him. It’s clear that this is the last thing she wants, yet she tries. The Ring flares, and a tentative curl of white light escapes, looping around Yusuf’s wrists and ankles. But it’s too weak, too faint, because Nile is at the end of her strength, and it sputters out. The black stone goes dark, the gold turns dull, as snowflakes begin to settle on it. Nile’s head slumps back, her breath barely stirring her chest, the curse a visible black stain in her blood that Nicolò can almost taste, filthy as tar. And in that instant –</p><p>“Nile.” He can barely get the words out. “Nile, are you there?”</p><p>“Leave me alone,” she murmurs. “I’m dying.”</p><p>“No. No, you are <em>not.” </em>Nicolò is terrified, he has possibly never been more terrified of anything in his life, but he has had an idea, and he will be entirely, actively damned if he lets her die before he can ask. It is agonizingly tied with the worst moment of his life, but that is not an excuse not to try. “Do you – if you agreed. If you wanted. I could make you a vampire.”</p><p>The sheer shocking nature of this suggestion is actually enough to force Nile’s eyes open. She stares at him. “What – you – now? <em>Turn </em>me?”</p><p>“If you don’t want – ” It’s fairly obvious that the alternative is death, but Nicolò di Genova, of all men, would never, never force the change on someone without their permission, then abandon them afterward, thus to wonder for eternity why they had not been deemed worthy enough either to die or to live. “I wouldn’t. If you think that it would be a monster, then of course not. But I… I know how. It would be permanent, obviously, and you could leave me when you were no longer a fledgling, but I would take care of you. I would do everything that is meant to be done, make it better for you than it ever was for me. I wish I could have asked you when you had a real <em>choice, </em>but – ”</p><p>“This is a choice.” Nile coughs, bringing up more blood, and Yusuf reaches out nervously to steady her again. “Are you sure you know how?”</p><p>Of course Nicolò knows. He tortured himself with the knowledge, cramming it into his skull over and over, dwelling on everything he did wrong that killed his sister. He drained Caterina clumsily dry, since that was all he remembered being done to him, and thought, idiotically, some new seed of eternal life would spring up in its place. But it is a complex and delicate process, where he must give his own blood back to her; it is that which will remake her, birth her into eternal life. Nicolò will not insist on being called father, or making Nile live as his daughter past when she does not need him, but he could do it. He can feel Yusuf’s eyes on him, both of them painfully aware – Yusuf even more so – what it means for him to offer, when they know damn well that he hates being a vampire and has scorned himself so terribly for it. It is that, rather than fear for herself, reflected in Nile’s face when she says, “If you’re sure…”</p><p>“I am.” Nicolò rocks back on his heels. “If you trust me.”</p><p>Nile’s eyes meet his poignantly, the echo of the moment back in Jerusalem when she silently asked the same thing, and he answered without hesitation. It takes her a little longer – this is, after all, a literally life-changing decision – but not much. She nods once and then again, grimacing on the pain. “I don’t want to die,” she says. “Do it.”</p><p>Some breath, some moment, seems to bind them beyond all words, the sense of a great fulcrum falling into place and a new balance created. Yusuf sits behind her, holding her upright, as Nile’s shivering has slackened off into nothing; her body is hanging onto life by a thread. Nicolò flexes out his fangs, prays to God as he never has before – he does not care if the Almighty has turned His back on him, let that be the Almighty’s sin and not his own – and crosses himself. <em>Libera nos a malo, </em>he thinks, the echo of his desperate prayer that night in the church, and for precisely the opposite reason. Then he leans in, positions himself at the base of her throat, and bites.</p><p>Nile’s blood is warm, sweet, kind as she is, flickering with the memories of her life growing up on the Ethiopian plains by Lake Tsana, her village, her family. There is her real father, Nesanet the stern and handsome warrior, teaching his daughter how to read, how to hunt, how to do her best. Her mother Subira, anxious but proud; her little brother Nebi, running at her heels, worshiping her every move. Her cousin Ali, her best friend, and then the terrible night that took away his father, her uncle, and her father too, and the way the world tilted so strangely that it seemed impossible to ever stand up, and left Alimayu, serious and awkward and trying much too hard, in Ali’s place. The memories come faster and faster, the flood of a lifetime to date – yet it is only nineteen years, nineteen short years. There is the long journey to Jerusalem, swaying atop a bad-tempered camel, the first sight of the walls, the trading business and Diyab handing her the Ring – calling Yusuf down, and –</p><p>Nicolò knows the story from here, or at least most of it. But when she wakes in Jerusalem, is met by Sebastien le Livre, and goes down into the garden to speak with Andromache, that is when he realizes in astonishment who she actually is. <em>King Solomon’s heir. </em>His descendant many times over, through Solomon’s son with the Queen of Sheba, Menelik of Ethiopia. The Ring <em>is </em>Nile’s, any way you care to cut it. Her family heirloom. It has found its way back into the hands of the bloodline of he who originally possessed it, yet even Solomon was mortal, and he died. If Nile, deathless and terrible and eternal, wields the Ring for all time –</p><p>No time to think of that. Nicolò must focus. The blood and the memories have slowed to a trickle, and he has absolutely no room for error. He pulls back, lifts his arm to his mouth, bites deeply and hard, and draws up his blood, old and dark and rich and crimson. He mixes it with Nile’s own blood and feeds it back to her bit by bit, injecting it into her veins, willing it to work, for the change to take hold. Nile lies slumped in Yusuf’s arms, dancing in the halls of the dead, but not yet – please God – a permanent resident. He works as quickly as he dares. But he is just over halfway through – perhaps two-thirds – when it dawns on him in total horror that he himself doesn’t have enough blood to complete this. He’s been wounded, staked, run a gauntlet in the icy wilderness, and he is nowhere near his full strength, which is normally advisable when trying to sire a fledgling. Nile was too weak to control the Ring, and now he is too weak to save her, after he gave her this terrible choice to start with –</p><p>Seeing the panic on Nicolò’s face, Yusuf says urgently, “What is it?”</p><p>“I don’t – ” Nicolò rocks back on his heels, wipes his mouth, and stares down at Nile – half-finished, sleeping, like a sculpture not yet freed from the artist’s marble. If he leaves her like this, she will either awake as some sort of raging abomination, or she simply never will. She is dead, after all. At least right now. He wants to scream, wants to weep, sees Caterina’s pale and lovely and frozen face beneath his hands, and how it felt when he knew that he was responsible. “I don’t have enough blood to finish.”</p><p>There’s a very, very long pause. Then Yusuf says, “Could you use mine?”</p><p>“I – <em>what?” </em>Nicolò goggles at him. As far as he is aware, no other vampire has borrowed any other creature’s blood to complete a siring, ever. He has no idea what would happen, if Nile might just explode, or anything else. Yusuf is clearly the only other source of living blood, but he’s a djinn. He is heat and light and sun and everything that vampires are not, which they normally cannot endure, at least at first. He is Nicolò’s polar opposite. He always has been.</p><p>He might just be the love of Nicolò’s life.</p><p>They stare at each other. Nicolò needs to make a decision; he can already sense the change curdling, Nile’s body retaining just enough life to reject the alien substances entering it, one violent reaction away from disaster. He only asked if she was willing to become a vampire, not the first vampire/djinn hybrid, if such a thing is even possible, in the history of the supernatural. But he knows what will happen if he stops, and Yusuf is watching him with that intent gaze that steadies the whirling world to a single point, and God <em>damn </em>it, Nicolò is willing to take the risk. “You realize,” he says, half-laughing, half-crying, “this will make her your child too, right? You’ll never get rid of us then.”</p><p>Yusuf flinches a little, but not at that. His eyes are distant-looking, inward, and Nicolò can sense the unquiet ghost of Sa’id. He says only, “I know. Do it.”</p><p>There is nothing else for it. Perhaps there never was.</p><p>Nicolò leans forward, bites into the side of Yusuf’s throat, and draws up his blood – still hot, despite the desolation of the snows, black and rich and the nectar of the gods. And in that instant, Nicolò senses something entirely different about their meeting back in Jerusalem than what he expected – he thought Yusuf was running away, but instead –</p><p>The force of the love staggers him, the fear and the confusion and the disbelief, the choice and the realization of what exactly Yusuf did, and why Sa’id banished him permanently. Nicolò wants to take Yusuf in his arms and kiss away even the memory of it, to promise they will find a way to fix this, together. But it is not the time for it, and he has a job to finish. He draws up Yusuf’s blood, mixes it with Nile’s and his own, senses a strange, sparking new alchemy that has never been made before, and that this, that they, are singular. Unparalleled. Unmatchable. He finishes at last, feeling as drained as if he was the one drunk dry all over again, shaking, exhilarated, exhausted, and not unlike a new mother must after giving birth (though he knows he was spared several unpleasant parts of that equation). He collapses back on his elbows, staring at the endless sky. Greyness is beginning to steal up the eastern horizon, washing some of the stars out. Dawn is coming. They need to get Nile out of the sun.</p><p>“Did it work?” Yusuf whispers, staring down at Nile’s face, peaceful and serene, her eyes closed, her body unmoving, two small puncture wounds remaining on her neck, though Nicolò has tried his best to lick them closed. “Is she – are you – ?”</p><p>“I don’t know. But we need to move her.” Nicolò’s body weighs about a thousand tons, he feels grainy and disoriented and floating along like a kite, but he remembers the instinctive terror of the sun, the blundering desperation to get away from it, and he remains completely determined not to let Nile experience any of the nightmare that he did. “Somewhere dark. At least until we know how the djinn blood is going to affect her.”</p><p>Yusuf gets to his feet, lifts Nile in his arms like a sleeping child, and lets Nicolò lead the way across the rough glacial moraine. The sky is now the silky grey of an oyster shell, and Nile stirs, her first movement since the change was completed. This might mean that she’s alive, that it worked, but they still don’t know what her mental state might be. They hurry their pace, descending steadily into a long, narrow ravine. They can hear rushing water, cross a rope bridge over a terrifyingly high river gorge, and on the far side, find themselves unexpectedly in a green and pleasant lowland, a secret garden that springs up from nowhere. The trees are flowering, the turf is thick and deep, birds and monkeys chitter a morning racket, and the air is soft with summer warmth. Nicolò doesn’t know if it’s magical – Yusuf said that the White King ruled here, this could be another seductive djinn illusion – or just the product of some ordinary people who made a beautiful place, and he hopes the owners, whoever they are, do not mind if they borrow it briefly. They find a pile of rocks which is still pitch-black under its stony brows, and carry Nile inside, settling her as comfortably as they can. Yusuf uses the last of his magic to conjure up a blanket and pillow, then staggers. “I’m freezing.”</p><p>Nicolò catches him as Yusuf sways sideways, and is alarmed to feel how damp and cool his skin is. After spending the night in an icy wasteland and then giving up a significant amount of blood to Nile, he’s looking dazed and drunk, and Nicolò, though he is exhausted from the effort of the change and the physical need to stay close to Nile, makes a decision. “Come with me.”</p><p>They draw off a few hundred feet, easily close enough for Nicolò to hear if she suddenly wakes and screams in pain. They sit down beneath the verdant canopy, watching the sun come up, and even in as bad shape as he is, Nicolò does not feel any pain. He glances shyly at Yusuf, wanting to start the conversation, but afraid that the djinn will regard it as a breach of privacy, a choice he did not make, to give up all those secrets to him in the course of Nicolò taking his blood. Yet it feels equally dishonest to pretend he does not know, and at last, gazing at the thin golden mist rising among the trees, Nicolò says, “I know what – what happened in Jerusalem. With Sa’id. I saw it. The choice you made. Why – why you were exiled.”</p><p>Yusuf does not quite look at him. They sit there impersonating a pair of statues, until at last Nicolò plunges again into the silence. “If you’re angry with me for – for seeing that, I’m sorry. I just – you may remember from the last time I fed on you, vampires can see memories when they take blood, and in the heat of the change, it’s impossible to shut out. If you want, I won’t say anything, we can act like it doesn’t – ”</p><p>And at that, he stops, out of total shock as much as anything. Because Yusuf al-Kaysani – the brave, clever, compassionate, and endlessly witty, who always had a barbed retort for everything Nicolò could throw at him and then some, who has been the most stalwart warrior and selfless companion, who willingly chose to be thrown out of his world and away from his own family forever rather than betray them to Sa’id – is crying.</p><p>Nicolò opens and shuts his mouth, feeling useless. Finally he reaches out, wraps his arms around Yusuf’s shoulders, and draws him close, as Yusuf melts into his chest with absolutely no strength to put any distance between them or fight back at all. Nicolò’s fragile heart spins like a coin flicked with a thumb, about to teeter off and fall, to break, to wrench, to smash, and he closes his eyes, tears running down his own cheeks. When Yusuf finally heaves a few shaky breaths, trying to compose himself, they pull back just far enough to meet each other’s eyes, to realize beyond any doubt what the other feels, and struggle to understand what on earth this can possibly mean, and what will happen if they do give into it for good. It’s somewhat too late for second thoughts, if that was something either of them had. But this is uncharted territory.</p><p>Slowly, slowly, their hands trembling where they clutch the other’s arms, Nicolò and Yusuf draw close again, mouths tilted toward each other, lips parted, until they finally and passionately kiss like they never have before. They turn each other’s heads, stroke each other’s cheeks and throats, tongues meeting, teeth scraping, kissing as if they are drinking from the fountain of life, gulping and gasping until Nicolò bears Yusuf down beneath him, onto the soft grass and the blooming flowers of the garden, the breaking morning painted in gold and rose and silver among the shadows of the trees. He pushes Yusuf’s knees apart, settles himself more firmly on top of him, and they roll over and over, kissing until they have lost sense of everything else. When at length they pull back again, Yusuf manages, “I still hate you, you know.”</p><p>“Mmm.” Nicolò cups Yusuf’s face in his hands and looks down at him, bits of grass and petal caught in his dark curls, his eyes blown wide and wet with desire, and wants this, wants him, more than he has wanted anything in all of time. “Are you sure about that?”</p><p>“Damn it,” Yusuf whispers. “No. No, I really don’t.”</p><p>“That’s more like it.” Nicolò grins. “I didn’t think so.”</p><p>With that, he leans down again, exploring Yusuf’s mouth, nibbling on his lip, nipping at his jaw (without fangs this time) and undoing Yusuf’s torn tunic, kissing a path down his collarbone, the muscles of his torso, all the way down to his navel. Finally, he scrapes his mouth over the line of dark hair that vanishes below the waistband of Yusuf’s salwar, and is rewarded with an outright groan of longing. “Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep, vampire.”</p><p>Nicolò glances up at him with a devious expression. Yusuf is shirtless, sprawled on the turf, breathing as if he’s been chased by all the Night Riders and then some, and when Nicolò makes to pull away, Yusuf grabs at him with a needy little whimper. “Where are you going?”</p><p>“You’ve been through a lot,” Nicolò says. “You’re emotionally wrung out, you were just betrayed by your old lover, we don’t know if you can ever return to the jinn world, and we – we have time. I don’t need to rush you into anything. I just…” He hesitates, terrified to say it, more terrified not to, and his words come out in disjointed bursts. “I do. The same. Feel it. I – I want you. I want this. Us. I have for a long time. We can decide what that looks like later.”</p><p>“We already have a child, don’t we?” Yusuf laughs a little wildly, close to tears. “Aren’t we supposed to be married?”</p><p>Nicolò utters a small sound of amused shock, and then he actually imagines the prospect, and he wants it so much that it fills up all the empty spaces inside him. “That is definitely a conversation for later,” he says lightly, kissing Yusuf’s hipbone. “There’s a ritual – vampires can mate with each other, it seals a physical and emotional bond between them far deeper than any human marriage. It would be slightly different with a djinn, but not – not entirely. If you did decide that was something you wanted, we could… investigate.”</p><p>Yusuf doesn’t answer, head falling back on the grass. Nicolò lies there with his chin on Yusuf’s stomach, aware of Yusuf’s arousal beneath him, waiting for the usual shame or sense of sin that has come to him every time he has lain with a man in the past. He enjoyed it – enjoyed it far more than he ever did with a woman, in fact, which was part of the reason he was so fearful of its hold on him that he joined the priesthood in the first place. Sodomy may not be the very worst sin mankind has to offer – the church and lay society is perfectly aware of it, penitential handbooks prescribe fasting on bread and water for those prone to it, Peter Damian wrote a searing tract against it in the <em>Liber Gomorrhianus – </em>but it is difficult to find another that reflects so painfully on one’s idea of oneself as a man. <em>And the Lord created them, male and female he created them.</em> Nicolò loves men, but he is not a woman, and that has never seemed to be right in his mind, an affront to the natural order. He does not hate himself for what he is, not that part, not exactly. He is more at ease being a sodomite than he is being a vampire. But it is a matched sort of monstrous, and it is hard to break the habit, that fear of hellfire and damnation if he was ever so unfortunate, or fortunate, as to die. He does not know.</p><p>“Hey,” Yusuf says, as if sensing the melancholy turn that Nicolò’s thoughts have taken. “Are you all right?”</p><p>“I… yes.” Oddly enough, Nicolò thinks, he is, for the first time in a very long while. “It’s not because of you,” he hastens to add. “None of this is about you. I just… it’s different.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Yusuf gazes up as the sunlight slants through the trees and on the two of them, lovers in the leaves. At last he says, “So. Nile. What will she need?”</p><p>“Care and attention, and feeding, and being taught how to hunt, how not to hurt humans, how to control the bloodlust, how to regain her sense of herself.” Nicolò rolls off and settles next to Yusuf, draping one arm over him and pulling him close. “Everything that I wished I had someone to teach me. I won’t let her be alone or suffer or go through anything that I could have prevented. Like a human child, eventually she will be a mature vampire and won’t need me anymore. When that happens, she can stay or she can go as she likes. I would not force her.”</p><p>“Of course you wouldn’t.” Yusuf turns his head, kissing the underside of Nicolò’s jaw. “Well, obviously I can’t teach her anything that a vampire would know, but I can – I can help. She has my blood too. She is my family. And so are – ” He pauses a long moment, then says, half to himself, “And so are you. You two might be all that I have left.”</p><p>“We’ll find a way to undo Sa’id’s banishment,” Nicolò promises firmly. “To get you home.”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Yusuf smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “The kind of exile that he pronounced on me, the curse – it’s incredibly powerful. The Golden One is the High King, he has the right to bar a djinn from anywhere that our people congregate, even if he rarely uses it for fear of sparking a tribal war. But Sa’id did that with me, and I don’t have any idea how to circumvent it. Or even if I should. It might be better that my family thinks I’m dead. That they’re safe.”</p><p>Nicolò thinks of Yusuf’s family, of his mother Maryam who clearly loves him so much, of Muhammad and Ismail back in Jerusalem who will be wondering where the three of them have gone, of their unfinished search for Musa, everything that remains outstanding, everything that Sa’id has so violently taken from him. Finally Nicolò says delicately, “Maybe the Ring…?”</p><p>“Of course I thought of that.” Yusuf’s eyes meet his, dark and troubled. “But Sa’id, no matter how misguided he was about trying to retrieve it, might be the only one who knew all along what it truly is. All of us wanted it to do something for us, some personal favor, resolve some troubling private situation. Sa’id knew from the start that that is impossible. He called it a terrible and unforgiving weapon of war and destruction. Those were his exact words. Of course I want to go home and see my family again. But if that means asking Nile to use the Ring to break the Golden One’s most terrible punishment, to go down a path that none of us want to take, that would…” He trails off. “I just don’t know if I could countenance that selfishness."</p><p>Nicolò is quiet. He can understand that asking Nile to revoke Yusuf’s exile from the djinn world would be tantamount to an act of open war, declare her as the new Solomon, and lead them into a protracted and bloody struggle of years or even centuries. “Maybe there’s another way,” he says at last. “A longer way, a harder way, but a better way. That is, if we… made a choice here. About the Ring, and whether we were bringing it back with us.”</p><p>“It’s Nile’s decision.” Yusuf’s voice is firm. “No matter what.”</p><p>From what he knows of his new daughter, Nicolò has a feeling that he can guess how she might be leaning. But Nile is also King Solomon’s many-times-great-granddaughter, and having just forsaken the rest of her human family, might be more willing to cling to this new tie. He doesn’t know. It all seems nebulous, inchoate, unformed, countless forks in the maze, roads taken or untaken, a thousand possible futures. There is no way to say for certain.</p><p>They lie there together in the grass, wrapped in each other’s arms, exhaustion overtaking them, until they are finally woken with a start by the sounds of hunger and confusion from the cave. Nicolò bolts upright and sprints as fast as he can – which, being who he is, is very fast indeed. Yusuf arrives several moments later, looking windblown, by which time Nicolò is kneeling urgently next to Nile, who is just opening her eyes. At the first sight of her, the recognition of his blood and Yusuf’s that shimmers in her veins, her new magical nature needing nothing to make her extraordinary when she already was, Nicolò feels a rush of helpless, headlong, desperate, eternal love that staggers him. Not the same as the love he feels for Yusuf, of course, but as if his infant child has just been placed into his arms, cooing and dewy and new with life, and the knowledge that as long as there is any sort of breath in his body, he will fight like hell to keep her safe. It breaks his heart as much as it heals it. For like any abandoned child, he can only wonder why his own maker did not feel this for him, why they left him in the woods like a dirty rag, useless and unwanted. Perhaps he was not sufficient. But how <em>could </em>he have known? How could they? When they did not stay around so long as to learn his own Christian name?</p><p>Nicolò shakes his head, forcing it aside. He moves closer to Nile, reaching out a tremulous hand. “Nile?” he asks softly. “How – how are you feeling?”</p><p>She blinks hard, raising her hands in front of her face. At last she says, “Strange.”</p><p>“That’s not surprising.” Nicolò keeps his voice soothing, stays where he is, does not move too quickly. “You will need to feed soon. Fledglings are constantly hungry. I’ll teach you how to hunt when you’re feeling somewhat more like yourself again, but it will be easiest at first to take it from me. Can you find your fangs?”</p><p>Nile makes a face, works her tongue awkwardly around her mouth, and then looks surprised to discover her new set of very sharp canines. Lisping, she says, “Yeth.”</p><p>Nicolò laughs. He can’t help it, he is delighted by her, a parent watching a baby take its first toddling steps into a brave new world. It worked, it <em>worked, </em>his greatest demon has been – if not totally exorcised, since Caterina will always be with him – eased, lessened, made new. “You are doing very well,” he tells her, rolls up his sleeve, and bares his wrist, since he doesn’t quite trust a new vampire to clamp down on his throat first thing. He could fight her off, of course, but that would defeat the point of a peaceful transition. “The vein there. When you are ready.”</p><p>Nile looks briefly leery, the old human instinct repulsed at the idea of drinking blood warring with the vampire need for it, the strange and fragrant scent that is calling to her, uncoiling in her, drawing her in. Nicolò helps her get her fangs positioned at the best angle, is aware of Yusuf watching them with a face soft with love, and then – when she’s looked up with a worried expression as if she might hurt him, and he has nodded graciously to assure her that it’s all right – for the first time as an immortal creature, she bites.</p><p>She’s clumsy about it, sucking and licking and taking a great deal of effort to draw up a few drops of his blood. Nicolò doesn’t have that much to spare, having used most of it to change her earlier, but he has heard that a fledgling vampire’s first feed should always be from their sire, and he is determined to do absolutely everything correctly. Nile is clearly startled at how much she is enjoying it, and finally lifts her head, mouth red and wet. “Good?”</p><p>“That will do for now, yes.” Nicolò lifts his wrist to his mouth and licks the wounds shut, to demonstrate how to do it when she has finished feeding on an animal or a human. “Let’s walk a bit. It will take some time to get used to your new abilities.”</p><p>Just then, he remembers that the sun is still above the horizon – he and Yusuf have slept for most of the day, but it’s still late afternoon, a while yet from twilight, and if Nile was an ordinary fledgling, she would be completely unable to bear the light. But while she flinches and screws up her eyes, she doesn’t seem repelled by it, and gets up, wobbling toward the cave entrance. Before he can stop her, she pokes her head out, and – <em>glows.</em></p><p>It’s not dramatic, and it’s hard to make out, but there’s a definite ethereal radiance around her, some kind of light that does not come from the sky, as Nicolò runs to catch up with her. Nile steps out into the garden, holds out her hands, then looks up at him. “I thought it was supposed to hurt?” she says questioningly. “But it doesn’t?”</p><p>“Ah.” Nicolò glances at Yusuf, who – sensing that it has come time to reveal his part in the proceedings – comes up behind them. “There’s something you need to know,” he says, as gently as he can. “When I was changing you, I didn’t – I didn’t have enough blood of my own to finish the process. So Yusuf offered some of his. You’re not strictly only a vampire. You’re part djinn as well. I didn’t know if it would work, or what it would make you, but – yes.”</p><p>“I – what?” Nile turns and stares at Yusuf, thunderstruck. “You did that? I’m also a djinn?”</p><p>“Partly,” Yusuf says. “I don’t know what abilities of mine you have, but it would appear that an increased resilience to sunlight is one of them. So.” He shrugs sheepishly. “You have me too, for whatever good it is. I hope you’re not – I know this isn’t what you agreed to, but – ”</p><p>He’s cut off as Nile throws her arms around their necks, pulling them into a tight, head-knocking embrace. “You saved my life,” she says, her voice thick. “Both of you. And I don’t know what’s going to happen now, but I could never be upset about that. Thank you.”</p><p>“You’re – you’re welcome.” Nicolò shyly kisses her head, as she lets go embarrassedly, and they regard each other in mutual confusion as to how to go about forging their strange new family unit. “Let’s walk now, but take it easy. Everything will take you a lot less effort than it used to, and your senses will disorient you until you get used to them. So – ”</p><p>Nile is already speeding off, keen to try out her new reflexes, and Nicolò is thus treated to another common parental experience: panic at how fast their child is racing off to wreak havoc. He manages to corral her, they take a few practice laps, and he catches a monkey for her, to get her used to feeding on animals. As the sun vanishes and rich purple twilight takes over, Yusuf roasts the monkey on a small fire and eats the meat once the two vampires are done with it. Nile sits with her knees drawn up under her chin, an oddly vulnerable and human pose, staring out at the dark garden. Finally she turns to Nicolò and says, “I should ask. Do you want – do you want me to use the Ring to – to make you back into a human? Or try, at least?”</p><p>“What?” Nicolò is so startled that it actually takes him a moment to remember that this has been his dearest ambition all along. “Do you really think I’d turn you into a vampire and then decide like a coward to leave you to it? To <em>abandon </em>you?”</p><p>He can’t help that his voice rises, since this strikes exactly at the heart of his own old fears, and Nile looks taken aback. “I just thought – ” she says uncertainly. “That was what you wanted.”</p><p>“It… it was.” Nicolò tries to imagine why. He can’t see that person any more, that man who could barely accept anything that he was, convinced of his own unworthiness, that there was nothing for him but pain and suffering and solitude. He doesn’t want it now for almost any reason you could name. In fact it genuinely frightens him, the idea that he could be thrust alone back into some aimless human life, away from Yusuf, away from Nile, away from everything that he has discovered and won, the new family and future that lies before him. “But not anymore. No. No. I am a vampire, and I intend to remain a vampire. On that topic, though… I know you have a lot to think about right now. But if you take the Ring and use it, as a creature who will never die a natural death… it’s your choice. Whatever you decide, we won’t stop you. But that is a terrible prospect, and you should think carefully.”</p><p>“You know.” Nile frowns. “I thought of that too. I’m immortal now, <em>and </em>I have ultimate power?  I could live for centuries, and I would have the ability to enslave every jinn for that entire time, among many other things. That – that can’t possibly be fair. It’s too much power to give any one person, ever. And I’m part djinn now, so – ”</p><p>She raises her hand, concentrates, and the Ring of Solomon materializes on her finger. It’s clearly getting easier every time, and when it meets her new nature, there is a crackle of sparks at the strength of the power. Nile glances around, spots a nearby tree, and makes a gesture at it. It splits in half and falls flat, and she grimaces. “It’s so easy, but it… it hurts.”</p><p>“That would be the djinn blood too,” Yusuf says quietly. “Though I expect with some practice, it would cease hurting you at all.”</p><p>“Except it shouldn’t.” Nile looks down at the Ring, then back at them, her expression fierce. “It <em>shouldn’t </em>just be as easy as snapping my fingers and destroying whatever’s in my way. It <em>shouldn’t </em>stop hurting – and I don’t think it would, it would just be in less noticeable ways. Everyone has always said that this is a terrible thing. We nearly died however many times because everyone wanted it. I don’t want to use it to rule as a tyrant, but it was made to do exactly that. I might fix one injustice, and make two more, and try to fix those, and make four. It was a weapon given as a punishment, and I don’t… I don’t know if it’s fair to anyone to take it back into the world. It was buried with Solomon. It should have stayed that way.”</p><p>Nicolò and Yusuf exchange a glance, start to say something at the same time, then stop. They don’t want to look as if they are already pressuring Nile to follow their wishes (ironic as that turn of phrase may be in this situation), not yet a full day into being her parents. Finally, in the interest of fairness, Nicolò offers, “You could try? To rule with it differently?”</p><p>“Except I don’t want that life.” Nile bites her lip, remembers that she has fangs now, and lets out a small yelp. “I don’t <em>want </em>to go back to Ethiopia and seize the throne and wage some huge war against Baldwin for Jerusalem. I might be Solomon’s heir, but I’m not <em>him, </em>and I’m glad that I’m not. I don’t need to trample the jinn under my feet, especially if they’re my family too. I was given the Ring because of my blood. Maybe now my blood means that I have to give it back.”</p><p>“You are the only one who can do that,” Yusuf says. “I suppose if you made the choice to relinquish it, to break your bond, it would be so. But if someone else got it – ”</p><p>“We could leave it here,” Nile says. “Nobody would ever find it.”</p><p>It’s true that a garden which may or may not have been here yesterday, deep in the wilds of the Tian Shan, is an unlikely place for another enterprising Diyab to stumble on it, but stranger things have happened. Nicolò says, “Take some time to think about it. I know there were things you wanted to do with the Ring, and you don’t have to give those up, not if you don’t want to. You can tell us in the morning, if you’ve decided that.”</p><p>“All right.” Nile nods stoutly and gets to her feet. “I think I’m going to go for a run.”</p><p>“Do you want me to come with you?” Nicolò is already getting to his feet. He remembers that first night again, the strange and wild power that the moon and stars gave him, how he felt as if he could never be tired again, driven out from Giovanna’s house and into the mountains, the true embrace of the beast. “You shouldn’t go far, just in case something – ”</p><p>Nile gives him an unmistakably teenage look. “I have the Ring of Solomon,” she points out, only slightly sarcastically. “I’m not all that worried about my personal safety.”</p><p>Nicolò has to admit that this is a fair point, and since he has so carefully managed every step of Nile’s acclimation thus far, it is time to let go his death grip and trust her to experiment by herself for a while. “All right,” he concedes. “Be back before sunrise, though.”</p><p>Nile duly agrees, rocks back on her heels, then explodes into the night, there and gone in a flash, as Nicolò blinks, wonders if this is how the parenting business always goes, and hopes he is not making a <em>complete</em> mess of it. When Nile’s scent has vanished on the wind, he turns and makes his way back to Yusuf, still sitting by the side of the dying fire. “Well,” he says wryly. “Any chance of you conjuring up some wine?”</p><p>“Don’t tell me you need a drink already.” Yusuf raises a dark eyebrow. “You still have what, a dozen years or so until she can properly manage on her own?”</p><p>“If I do my job right, something like that. A decade, at least.” Nicolò is aware that this is just a formality, an empty figure, that even once children leave home, that does not mean the parent’s work is done. A shorter term than it takes to raise a human child, but with a lifespan far longer, and he knows perfectly well that he will never be indifferent to Nile, never not care where she is or what she is doing, if she is safe, if she is happy. The idea of stepping back far enough to let her make her own mistakes is nerve-wracking, but he has to do that too. As for Yusuf –</p><p>He does not want to utter aloud the possibility that Yusuf stays with him even another year, much less ten, much less a hundred, much less a thousand. They do not know what comes next, what form the far future will take. But as they sit there listening to the night, to the shirring of insects, the soft cacophony of the garden in the darkness, it is undeniable to both of them that they know what they want right now. As they turn to each other, as they lean in and grasp hold, as their mouths meet over and over like some strange and tender sacrament, Yusuf murmurs between hungry kisses, “She isn’t going to come running back, is she?”</p><p>“I don’t think so.” Nicolò snorts a laugh. “I’ll warn you if I smell her.”</p><p>Yusuf makes an impertinent comment along the lines of how he doesn’t intend Nicolò to have enough brain power to do anything of the sort, and with that, the final barrier between them shatters. They claw into each other’s arms, tackling each other to the turf, kicking and struggling not in a fight, but out of an overwhelming need to be as close to each other as possible, to inhale each other, to breathe and taste and touch nothing except each other, to unite their disparate star-stuffs into one, and make a new union just as they have made a new creature. Yusuf tears Nicolò’s tunic in the course of ripping it off, Nicolò repays the favor with Yusuf’s trousers, and very soon they are in nothing but their skins, kissing frantically, stretched out in the sensuous lushness of the long grass. They touch and tease and torment the other, delighting in every new exploration, every kiss on secret skin, mapping their own territory in this new and distant and wonderful land, strangers in paradise. Nicolò slides down Yusuf’s stomach and takes him in his mouth, swallows him down and sucks him off and feels absolutely no shame in it whatsoever. It is magical in a way entirely beyond their own supernatural natures. It is transcendent.</p><p>They lie on their backs and pant and recover themselves, after Yusuf has come in a hot burst that tastes like fire and salt and sunlight, then begin again, in a different rhythm. Yusuf runs his hands down Nicolò’s sides, circles lower, and works him open with one finger, then another. He spits in his hand and slicks them both, and takes his time about entering Nicolò inch by inch, pushing his legs apart, his breath coming in short, sharp hisses as they sink toward perfect union. Nicolò grabs two fistfuls of grass and tries to brace himself, feeling the surge of heat pulsing through him from where Yusuf’s body is shared with his, a breath of life far beyond any paltry memory or pale mortal imitation. Yusuf’s knees dig into his thighs, his fingers clutch hard into the muscles of Nicolò’s shoulders, his mouth scattering worshipful kisses over the nape of Nicolò’s neck, the back of his head, his cheeks, the strong line of his spine. Since it is, after all, rather appropriate, Nicolò finds himself thinking of the Song of Solomon, which he always found somewhat erotic to be included in Holy Scripture. <em>Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for your love is better than wine. Your anointing oils are fragrant, your name is oil poured out. Draw me after you, let us run, for the king has brought me into his chambers.</em></p><p>Yusuf moves slowly at first, and then faster, as Nicolò urges him on with small whimpers and bucks and jerks, pulling them deeper and harder, building up to full immortal strength and stamina. He breathes the night air, the warmth on the breeze. <em>Behold, you are beautiful, my beloved, truly delightful. Our couch is green, and the beams of our house are cedar. </em>He gives himself up entirely, gives his heart away for good and always, knows that however long it takes them to decide to properly mate, he will never change his mind, never want anyone different. This is it, this is forever, this is his choice, and everything after that is nothing but time. <em>Tell me, you whom my soul loves, where you pasture your flock. </em>It is intense and ecstatic and beyond all speech. It burns, it burns, it <em>burns, </em>but God, but <em>God Almighty, </em>the devastation is so unbearably sweet.</p><p>They reach their release almost together, as Yusuf reaches around to stroke Nicolò to a jerking climax as he hits the sweet spot deep inside him, and they wrench and gasp and emit a confused assortment of curses, sparks, and other things. Then they collapse in a tangled, wrung-out, boneless, breathless heap, lie there utterly undone, and do not succeed in anything remotely coherent for a minor eternity. Finally Yusuf extricates himself, groans, and collapses next to Nicolò, wheezing. He says something in Daevic which Nicolò suspects is utterly untranslatable, then rolls over and gazes at him with soft, limpid, stupidly adoring eyes. Voice slow and heavy, as he strokes the back of his fingers over Nicolò’s cheek, he whispers, “I love you.”</p><p>In some sense, there’s no need to say it, since Nicolò has already tasted it in his blood, has seen the truth, knows it in a way bone-deep and unquestionable. But glimpsing it in Yusuf’s private thoughts, and then hearing it spoken aloud, are two different things, and it twists his heart like a vise. He leans down, nosing along Yusuf’s cheek, catching his wanton mouth with his own, and whispers, “You know, it turns out that you are quite a sap.”</p><p>Yusuf groans again, bats at him feebly, and cannot manage to make it remotely convincing, especially since he follows it up by seizing Nicolò’s ear and dragging him in for another kiss, as if he might die in the few moments since he last did so. When they break apart, he acknowledges, “Fine. So I am. Don’t tell anyone.”</p><p>“Of course not,” Nicolò teases. “Reputation to maintain, isn’t it?”</p><p>Yusuf waves a hand dismissively and kisses Nicolò again. Before long they are ready to have another go at it, the roles reversed this time, and Nicolò discovers, when it is over and his life has once again been changed in a blaze of heavenly light, that he knows the feeling entirely. “Christ,” he mutters, sprawled out, heaving for breath. “I – I love you too.”</p><p>Yusuf looks briefly triumphant, then deeply startled, then almost hesitant, as Nicolò thinks that he must have had his fill of honeyed words and hollow promises from Sa’id, and that did not prevent it from ending in brutal betrayal. Needing to emphasize that this is not just an involuntary utterance coming about as the result of a really, really good fuck, he takes hold of Yusuf’s head again, presses their foreheads together, and gazes deeply into his eyes. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I do. I love you. And I’m not ashamed of that, or me. Not any more.”</p><p>A quivering, delicate, heartbreakingly lovely smile turns up Yusuf’s mouth. He looks down, eyelashes fluttering, struggling to master his emotions. At last he says only, “Good.”</p><p>Even they are starting to feel a pleasant buzz of exhaustion by now, what with one thing and another, and they do not want Nile to return unexpectedly and catch them <em>in flagrante delicto</em>, so they loathingly wrestle apart, put back on some minimum amount of clothing, and go find a soft place to settle down. They settle down in a patch of long grass, snuggle into each other’s arms, and Yusuf rests his head on Nicolò’s chest as Nicolò strokes his back, curling into him like his missing half. Nicolò thinks vaguely that perhaps he should stay awake long enough to make sure that Nile gets back before sunrise, but that might be what is entailed by trusting her. He wants to stay here with Yusuf, anyway. Christ, he loves him.</p><p>Nicolò leans back. He can feel the knot of worry and uncertainty that has been clenched tight in his chest for days finally starting to give way. He gazes up at the stars, the shadows of the moonlight that fall over their own private Eden, and though he knows they must therefore be leaving it again, the thought is not so terrible. Once he began again from nothing. This is far more than that. He has done his duty here. He has done it well.</p><p>And so, in that fashion, they sleep. Nicolò does not dream, as vampires almost never do, but he wakes shortly before sunrise, Yusuf still fast asleep next to him, and sniffs the air to make sure that Nile is back. He does not have to wait long to be sure, because he sees her almost at once. She’s crouched beside a pool, staring down into the water, washing her hands over and over. It is a habit Nicolò recognizes well, and he gently shifts Yusuf off him – he stirs and murmurs in his sleep, but doesn’t wake – gets up, and pads over to her. “Are you all right?”</p><p>“I’m fine.” Nile answers slightly mechanically, even as both of them know that she can’t be, not really, not yet. “I – I killed something.”</p><p>“Yes, that does come with it.” Nicolò waits to see if she wants to be alone, then sits down next to her. Feeding from him, or from a monkey that he has already killed for her, is different from running and taking down and destroying something on your own, and he remembers his own shock of horror, looking down at the deer. “What was it?”</p><p>“A snow leopard.” Nile looks down at the water, their indistinct dark reflections bobbing on the surface. “It was beautiful, it was fast, it was another predator, and I just – something happened to me, the instincts took over. I hunted it down and killed it and drank it dry, and it felt – it felt <em>good, </em>it felt <em>glorious. </em>And I don’t – I don’t know. I was wondering if that got easier too, and if it did… if I was just going to turn into someone else anyway, even if I gave up the Ring. I’m not blaming you,” she hastens to add. “I made this choice. I just… wonder.”</p><p>“So did I.” Nicolò considers that, then amends, “So <em>do </em>I. You know how much I’ve struggled with it, with feeling that I had some innate darkness in me, something that took me away from the person I wanted to be. I don’t know what will happen, Nile. But I do know that we can try. Nothing is foreordained, nothing is inevitable. We’re not monsters merely because we are this way, no more than man is forever damned because once upon a time, in another garden rather like this, he took a bite of an apple and knew good and evil. I suppose Saint Augustine might disagree with me on that point, but I’ve long since accepted that I was never a very good priest. You can choose who you are. You’re doing that with the Ring. Even if you were born into an ancient lineage without any say in it, even if someone gave it to you, even if everyone might expect you to want all that power and authority and take it up because you were told to, you don’t have to. It matters what you do and what you want and who you know yourself to be. And a God that will not honor that is, in my view, not a God worth worshiping at all.”</p><p>Nile tries to smile, lips quivering. He remembers that she is a Christian too, a member of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, and may take leave to wonder what, indeed, God Almighty makes of all this. She looks back at the water. Then she says, “I promised that I’d come home. That I’d come back to my family. When I made Ali jump through the portal in the City of Carnelian and leave me behind. I want to see them, but how can I do it like… like this?”</p><p>“We’ll think of something,” Nicolò promises her. “We’ll see them, if that’s what you want. I’ll help you tell them. It can’t go any worse than when I tried to – than what happened with my sister. I’ll tell you that full story, if you want it, later. But it’s a brutal tragedy, and I’ll do everything I can to ensure that it does not happen again.”</p><p>“I know.” Nile gazes at him steadily, dark eyes calm and liquid in the faint glow of breaking dawn. “You’re a good man, Nicolò.”</p><p>“I… thank you.” He looks down, harrumphing, trying to compose himself. It catches him in that soft underside, the most vulnerable part of him, that wanted it the most and feared it could never be true. “Have you decided what to do with the – ?”</p><p>“I’m giving the Ring up,” Nile says firmly. “I don’t want it any more, and I don’t want anyone else to have it. I wished that nobody else would learn about it, so maybe if I leave it here – ” She waves a hand at their dreamy surroundings. “I’d break the bond, and bury it, and we could do whatever else to ensure that it was never found. It’s clear that we can never bring it back to Jerusalem. Baldwin and Sa’id and however many others would never stop looking for it. So if it just disappeared forever in the Mountains of Heaven – ” She stops, then shrugs. “It was supposed to be a gift from God to Solomon, wasn’t it? So that seems fitting.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Nicolò looks at her with that deep love he is feeling more and more for her, from the first time she opened her eyes in the cave, the way all the world is supposed to make sense when you have a child. It’s her, and it’s Yusuf, and it’s him, and it’s them, and he doesn’t understand it, but he is grateful. “We’ll do that, then.”</p><p>Nile nods. She still doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the light, the flush of sunrise; it took Nicolò at least a decade to tolerate it even slightly, but that is the djinn blood. He’s grateful that she has it, that it will be easier, that she will not live for years in darkness, and glances around at the sound of soft footsteps through the sward, as the djinn in question slips toward them, looking adorably sleep-tousled and inquisitive. “Nile? Don’t you need to be – ?”</p><p>“No, I’m all right.” Nile takes a deep breath. “I’m ready to give up the Ring.”</p><p>Yusuf doesn’t look particularly surprised, but he blinks anyway. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“Yes,” Nile says. “It’s the right thing to do, and I don’t want anything that would come with it, even if I thought I was doing good. I’d enslave the jinn, I’d start an endless war to either control the Ring or overthrow me, and it would spill over into the human world and make everyone’s suffering even worse. If either of you really think that I should keep it, I’ll hear you out, but – ”</p><p>“I…” Yusuf hesitates. Then he says, “My mind hasn’t changed. I don’t think it’s worth causing this much war and misery, just because of me. Sa’id isn’t infallible. I’ll think of some other way to see my family again. And Niki said that he didn’t want to be turned back into a human, so – ”</p><p>He bites his tongue, as Nicolò glances over at him in amusement. “Niki?”</p><p>“What?” Yusuf grumbles. “Am I not allowed to have a pet name for you?”</p><p>Nile looks as if she’s biting her cheek and very pointedly not asking what happened last night while she was gone. “Well,” she says. “If nobody else has anything that they want it for…?”</p><p>“I don’t think so, no.” Nicolò coughs. “We – or at least I – still do need to go back to Jerusalem and fulfill my promise to Rabbi Samuel and his family, take them safely to Speyer. We should also try to find Andromache and Quynh, see if they made it out of Sa’id’s palace, and arrange to have the <em>Key of Solomon </em>returned to the rabbi. They may also be useful in helping with the trip to Germany. With the Ring gone, the jinn tribes will go back to their politicking, but at least that’s nothing different than usual. It should also pry apart the alliance between Baldwin and Barqan, since neither of them have something that the other wants. After that…”</p><p>He stops, since he doesn’t know what their new life is going to look like. It stretches out, huge and unformed, terrifying and tantalizing. Go to Ethiopia and bring back the village’s goods in trade, meet Nile’s human family and try to explain her transformation. Work to understand the exact depths of magic that have shut Yusuf off from his family, his people, and any djinn city anywhere, and how to unravel them. And, Nicolò supposes, just be together. Wander the world. See what is out there. They have nothing but time.</p><p>There’s a long silence. Then Nile raises her hand. “All right,” she says. “I’m ready.”</p><p>One last time, she summons up the Ring of Solomon, golden and glowing. Then she takes a deep breath and says, “I renounce you. I return you to sleep. I part your being from me in every particular, every spell, every binding, and consign you to rest forever in this earth. I separate myself from the lineage of Solomon and abdicate any claim to his crown, his kingdom, or his powers. I give you up. I give you up. I give you up.”</p><p>The Ring flares erratically, trying to cling onto its rightful master, and Nile grimaces, face twisting as she fights off its attempts to bond with her again. She finally pries it off her finger and drops it in the dirt, where it hits with a hiss and a puff of smoke. They all watch it as warily as a sleeping viper, as the gold slowly goes dark, the black stone cracks in half with a sound like thunder, and the trees, which have been craned over them, staring down at the fallen titan, slowly relax back into their accustomed places. Nile is breathing hard, cold sweat standing on her forehead, but she looks quietly triumphant. “All right,” she says. “All right.”</p><p>Yusuf snaps his fingers, digging a deep hole underneath it, and the Ring drops out of sight beneath fathoms of earth. He works a number of disguising and guardian spells over it, so there is no way to tell that anything was ever here, and they stare down at the Ring of Solomon’s grave. Finally Nile says, “Will that work? Last time we tried it in Petra, it – ”</p><p>“I think it will. This time. We didn’t know anything back then that we do now, and you had to explicitly give it up.” Yusuf straightens up. “Well, since I presume we’re not walking back from China, do you want me to fly you again, or run with your – with your father?”</p><p>He says the word almost shyly, as if uncertain that he is entitled to the same status or consideration, and Nile looks at him firmly. “You’re my father too,” she says. “I lost mine a while ago. Now I have two. We’ll work out how that goes later.”</p><p>“Ah.” Yusuf coughs. “Thank you.”</p><p>They look around one more time, to be certain that it is time. Once before in his life, Nicolò di Genova came down out of the mountains, left an old world forever, and began his first eternity as a vampire. Now he is doing the same, and beginning a new one. He was alone then, and he knew nothing. He is not alone now. He has a mate, a daughter, a purpose, a family, a quest. He will, he thinks, bear these years much better than before.</p><p>He takes Yusuf’s hand, and Nile’s. And so the three of them leave the garden together, westward from Eden, the rising sun coming up behind them, and they do not look back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>PART TWO</strong>
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  <strong>LONDON</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>2018</strong>
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</p><p>COLLECTIONS relating to Magic and Witchcraft from the papers</p><p>        of various 16th and 17th century astrologers, finally put together</p><p>        probably in the library of John Somers, Lord Somers (v. catalogue</p><p>        in Harl. MS. 7191, f. 158 b). The table of contents on f. 3 is in</p><p>        the same hand as Somers' catalogue. Artt. 1-4 belonged early in</p><p>        the 17th cent. to Gabriel Harvey, the poet and friend of Spenser,</p><p>        who has annotated them throughout (compare the hand with</p><p>        Add. MS. 32494). Art. 10 and probably some other articles were</p><p>        collected by Elias Ashmole. Later owners are noticed below.</p><p> </p><p>    <strong>Contents</strong></p><p>"Here begynneth the booke of Kynge Solomon called the Kay</p><p>        of Knowledge," to which Harvey adds "Clavicula Salomonis.</p><p>        Extat Latine: et legi." In two books. There are many treatises</p><p>        with similar titles, but this does not agree with the Clavicula</p><p>        edited by S. L. M. Mathers (London, 1889), nor with the treatise</p><p>        known as Lemegeton. The first rubric is "Orysons to be sayde</p><p>        when you coniure," and the last "Here follow the manner howe</p><p>        to make the Pentacle." In a late 16th cent. hand. f. 5.</p><p> </p><p>From the British Library, Additional Ms. 36674, catalogue entry. <em>The Key of Knowledge: Clavicula Salomonis, </em>c. 16th century.</p><hr/><p>
  <strong>Chapter 16</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Joe and Nicky are running late, which is only incidentally their fault. The Bolt driver had fits trying to find their house in the winding side streets, and there’s some kind of feast day and a backup of tour buses on Route 1, which means that traffic has slowed to glacial speeds. Fortunately, the airport is only nine kilometers down the road (nothing is far away in Malta) and they’ve left two and a half hours to get through baggage check and security, which can be a zoo at the height of tourist season. But when they’re halfway there, Nicky realizes that he’s forgotten his backpack, so they have to go all the way <em>back </em>to Gżira, direct their poor driver to the house again, then run up and fetch it and perform the frantic last-minute traveler scramble to make absolutely <em>sure</em> they haven’t forgotten anything else. Then it’s profuse apologies for the trouble, more traffic, and finally pulling in under the elegant concrete arches of Malta International Airport, at the tail end of an endless jam of buses, eCabs, cars, and Vespas. The easyJet check-in desk is manned by exactly two clerks and walled off by a solid block of sunburned Mancunians who are acting like British tourists everywhere (which is to say, drunken wankers). And when they finally <em>do </em>sprint to their gate with a nerve-shredding ten minutes to spare, they discover that they might as well not have bothered. The incoming aircraft is late. The scheduled departure to London-Gatwick is delayed by at least ninety minutes.</p><p>“Well, that’s wonderful,” Nicky remarks, even that most patient of men sounding more than a little aggravated, as they fight off the Mancunians for custody of a seat near a power outlet. “I feel like this is my fault. I don’t know how I forgot my bag, it was right by the door.”</p><p>“It’s not your fault.” Joe summons up a reassuring smile. “I think we’re both a little frazzled.”</p><p>Nicky makes a noncommittal noise in his throat, fiddling with their boarding passes and Maltese passports. (They got theirs the legitimate way, though the “golden passport” scheme wherein Malta raises quick cash by essentially selling EU citizenship to whoever can afford to pay has been relentlessly criticized.) Both of them are indeed rather wigged out about what should be, by all rights, a perfectly ordinary trip to London to watch their daughter receive her doctorate. Nile has been working hard on it for the last several years, and she is lucky that she’s not counting on a PhD in history to make her employable, since they have plenty of money and options for careers that do not rely on the sadistic vicissitudes of the academic job market. In fact, Joe isn’t sure why Nile is doing it for any other reason than fun – which is fair, they have long lives, they should learn things, they should educate themselves as much as possible. There were times in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries when Joe and Nicky did a few degrees for the hell of it, though that knowledge is now hopelessly antiquated and makes Nile poke fun at them whenever they mention some theory that was very <em>au courant </em>in, say, 1849. But they’re not total dinosaurs. They’re well aware of the twenty-first century, they’ve kept up with all the developments and the technology and the lingo, they read newspapers and the internet and they own smartphones like every other human (or creature), and one day, if the opportunity arose, they themselves might like to go back to school. It’s just, well, it hasn’t.</p><p>Joe leans back on the uncomfortable seat, breathing deeply. For his part, he always gets outrageously stressed when he has to set foot on an airplane. Like the middle-aged Peter Pan forced onto a passenger jet and constantly afraid that it is going to crash, even the eighty-odd years since commercial aviation became safe and widespread have not succeeded in convincing Joe of its veracity. He can’t really fly on his own anymore, what with radar and satellites and some <em>the-truth-is-out-there </em>idiot with a camera phone and too much time on his hands who could take a video and post it as absolute proof of Aliens Among Us. It might just get lost in the usual shuffle of lunatics and conspiracy theories in the sordid corners of the Deep Web, but it still feels risky. Either way, Joe couldn’t just pick up Nicky and their suitcases and haul them off to London, so they’d be stuck enduring easyJet’s version of customer service either way. (At least it isn’t Ryanair?) They should have just sprung for BA and the flight to Heathrow, which according to the departure boards, has just left, exactly on time. Of course it fucking did.</p><p>Joe blows out a breath and scrubs both hands through his hair, making the curls stand out wildly. At least they had a little time at home before they had to run off again, and that’s always nice. They live in Gżira, a suburb on the north shore of Valletta, which boasts spectacular views of the walled old city, Fort Manoel in the harbor, and the piers bobbing with endless sailboats. It’s a lively and diverse neighborhood, native Maltese and immigrants and students at the University of Valletta, though they keep tearing up all the beautiful old houses and replacing them with glittering modernist cubes of glass and steel and white concrete. It is a little too self-consciously gentrified at times, and the palm-treed waterfront promenade with its expensive condos often serves as ground zero for tourist shenanigans, but Joe and Nicky live several blocks away, in a refurbished old villa with amber stone walls, an inner courtyard, and fruit trees. Some annoying developer asks them every six months if they want to sell up so he can turn it into some very avant-garde flats. They have shot him down each time. Half their street are Airbnbs anyway, to the point where they put a sign by the doorbell advising backpackers that this is not the place they are looking for. They spent most of their time fielding that question otherwise.</p><p>Nonetheless, Joe and Nicky are very happy in Malta, and even when Nile started her program at KCL, they saw no reason to uproot. Both of them are resistant to living in England on principle (the weather, the politics, the food, the weather, the people, the politics, the weather…) and besides, Nile is a grown woman and then some. She might be eternally nineteen, physically speaking, but she’s almost a millennium old, and doesn’t need her parents hovering. That hasn’t been the case for a while. She’s always been free to go anywhere she wants, to do her own thing, live her own life, and they can sometimes go several years without seeing each other. They stay in touch with texts and video calls and emails, and they’re both very proud of her and can’t wait to see her. It’s just that they feel like they’ve missed something, like maybe Nile has been keeping this mostly to herself for some other reason, and that can’t help but worry them.</p><p>Finally, the incoming aircraft arrives, the passengers are shuttled off, boarding is called for London-Gatwick, and Joe and Nicky shoulder their bags and join the queue. Nicky, of course, knows perfectly well that Joe hates flying, and as they find their seats (they paid the £14.95 or whatever stupid upgrade fee it was for “extra legroom”) he glances questioningly at his husband. “You all right?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. Of course.” Joe gets up to shove their bags into the overhead compartment. “You know me. I’m used to this by now.”</p><p>Nicky smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and continues to look concerned as Joe sits back down, anxiously drumming his fingers on his leg. He glances around, sees that nobody’s watching, and says in a low voice, “If you wanted a bit of blood – ”</p><p>Joe briefly considers this option, just because of the happy possibility that they might get banned from easyJet and thus have no choice not to fly it again, but he regretfully decides that they should avoid the spectacle. Even though he is obviously not a vampire himself, being mated to one has provided some interesting developments in terms of the effect of Nicky’s blood on him. A drop or two can always help calm him down, focus him, ground him, when the djinn urge to leap up and spiral away on the nearest breeze becomes too much. It also helps with situations like the present, where he is shut in a rinkidink tin can with a lot of rowdy holidaymakers who smell like sun cream, chlorine, and booze, and has to rely on the good graces of said tin can to transport him three and a half hours to the United Kingdom without any mishaps. He knows flying is safer than driving a car. He <em>knows. </em> He just still doesn’t like it.</p><p>“I’m all right,” Joe says. “Maybe when we get to London.”</p><p>Nicky nods graciously, they cross their fingers that nobody will arrive to take the empty middle seat, and high five in victory when the plane door is shut and it’s still just them. Joe has the window, because looking out helps a little, and Nicky is installed in the aisle. He looks very magisterial, Joe thinks. To help them pass as Nile’s actual parents, Nicky has grown a beard to match Joe’s, and Joe will use a small disguising spell to give them gray hairs and smile lines. This will be the first time that they’ve visited Nile at King’s, and it’s best that that be accomplished with as few questions from the humans as possible.</p><p>The plane bumps as they pull back from the gate, sit on the tarmac for another thirty minutes doing absolutely nothing because why not, and Joe’s almost ready to scream by the time they finally start their takeoff roll. Nicky crosses himself absently, which he does before every flight, and Joe sometimes feels like doing the same, despite its incompatibility with his personal theological values. They leave the runway and accelerate up, up, up into the sky, through a few brief jolts of turbulence that make Joe clench his fists so as not to seize Nicky’s wrist, and he stares out at the earth falling away below with an ache in his heart that feels almost physical. He likes the modern world well enough, but it’s stolen all the magic out of everything. He can’t fly except like this, in a way that seems purposefully designed to suck every drop of joy out of one of mankind’s greatest accomplishments. He’s wandered in splendid cities filled with ancient sorcery, and now he gets strip malls and power lines and grey cement, all those irreplaceable houses taken down in Gżira for some rich fucks who will pay premium for a seaside view. Joe is well aware that he gets the luxury of romanticizing the past, but there are many people who think that they’re indisputably so much better off now when, you know, they aren’t. Maybe things haven’t gotten better. Just worse in a different way.</p><p>Joe stares out the window, lost in a melancholy haze that he doesn’t like and wants to shake off – this is Nile’s big moment, this is something he wants to make exciting for her and to make her happy that they came to see her, not moping around and griping about the good old days like some stereotypical angry old man. He’s not angry. Not really. He is married to the love of his life and he has a beautiful home and a daughter he’s very proud of and an existence that he’s managed to make something truly meaningful. He has had so many more years and so many more blessings than almost anybody else. But sometimes late on dark nights, even as he tenderly watches Nicky sleep in the bed next to him and would not be anywhere else, not for the world, Joe misses magic so much he can barely breathe.</p><p><em>It can’t lead you anywhere good. </em>They’re lucky that their gambit in Tian Shan worked, that the Ring of Sulaiman remained hidden. Nile is living the unglamorous student life in London <em>because</em> she voluntarily gave up the chance to be an all-powerful eternal queen, and Joe doesn’t actually want any of that back. But it’s hard to put that out of your head, the lingering knowledge that things <em>could </em>be different, if all of you had been just a little less noble and made another choice. Look at the world. It’s a mess, a goddamn mess. Maybe if they went back and got the Ring and –</p><p>No, Joe reminds himself. No, no, <em>no. </em>That way lies madness. You’ve had this argument with yourself for centuries, you’re not about to get sucked back down the drain now. You decided, you all decided, and you’ve had a happy life precisely because you resisted the temptation of ultimate power which would ultimately destroy you. You just have to give up this dream of magic. Don’t get the people you love mixed up in it. This is your shit. Deal with it.</p><p>He leans back against the headrest, closes his eyes and dozes intermittently, and knows when they have crossed into England even before they start the descent. It’s the last week of June, high summer everywhere else, but the sky is frowning and sour, piled with hammerheads of iron-grey clouds, and spits of rain scatter on the window as they come in low over the ubiquitous green dales of southern England. Tiny cars scoot below like toys; as a former British protectorate, Malta also drives on the left, so at least Joe won’t be hopelessly bewildered trying to remember which way to look before he crosses the street. There’s a rumble as the landing gear lowers, the cement boulevards of Gatwick sweep into sight lined by blinking runway beacons, and Joe feels the thump in his teeth as they touch down and the plane roars into its deceleration, momentarily fighting to take to the air again. He gets it. He does.</p><p>They taxi to their gate, stand up, wait an irritatingly long time, and perform the mundane tasks of shuffling off an airliner and proceeding through arrival protocols. For now, they can still go through the quick-entry gates on their Maltese passports, since despite two years of manful struggle post-Brexit referendum, the Tories have not yet succeeded in sleepwalking Britain out of the EU and into… whatever they’re actually trying to accomplish, Joe has lived for over a thousand years and even he has no idea. He’s just glad to be off the plane, even if it is thirteen degrees Celsius and the weather app on his phone promises rain, light; rain, moderate; or rain, general until at least 17:00. Especially for a fire-blooded creature, this is the <em>worst </em>country.</p><p>They wait another half hour because Gatwick has decided to have one of its periodic baggage-handling holdups, but at least their luggage has made it, and they haul the suitcases off the carousel and trundle out to ground transportation. Nicky buys their Thameslink tickets at the kiosk, and they run to catch the next departure to St Pancras Station, which is just about to pull out as they haul ass up the platform with supernatural speed (hopefully people figure they’re just the usual desperate commuters). They squeeze through the doors, find seats, and look at each other with slightly harassed smiles. “Well,” Nicky says. “Welcome to London.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Joe tries to remember the last time they were here. He thinks it was in the late 1980s, and everything looks very different. Obviously the city and the country have undergone huge changes since then, part of the reason the Brexit idiots are banging the xenophobia drum, and he has a feeling that getting to central London will be very strange. It’s certainly not the greatest historical development he has seen in his long life, but it never stops being noticeable. Especially since everything now happens so <em>fast. </em>That’s technology and globalization and all the other architects of the modern world for you. Last time they were here, they went to a seedy all-night cinema in Piccadilly Circus that showed explicit gay arthouse films, sat in bars clouded in cigarette smoke, listened to complaints about Thatcher and the coal miners’ strikes, made calls in red phonebooths and rode in black cabs. It was still in some ways the stereotype of old London, even as it was changing. Joe doesn’t know what this city is, exactly, but it’s something else.</p><p>The train fills up steadily as they ride toward St Pancras, though there are exoduses at London Bridge and Blackfriars, and Joe finally breathes in for what feels like the first time since they landed. London is possibly the most ridiculous city on the planet for many reasons, but part of him does love it. Some of the rain is clearing, showing dove-grey and rose-pink sky lit by the evening glow, and when they finally step off in the iron arches of St Pancras, Joe is tempted to walk the rest of the way rather than be shut up in another underground steel tunnel. Nile’s place is on Tottenham Court Road, halfway between University of London headquarters in Russell Square and the KCL campus on the Strand, and especially at rush hour, when you can wait two or three trains to find enough room to barely squeeze on, a pleasant walk of just over a mile sounds far preferable. “Come on,” Joe says, making for the exit gates. “This way.”</p><p>Nicky dutifully follows him, and they emerge into the warm, damp twilight. Ubers and red double-decker buses and bicyclists jostle past on the pavement, the streets are lit with the glow of a thousand Pret a Mangers, Boots, Tescos, and Costa Coffees, and Joe briefly fears that London might have lost all of its soul to the rampant corporate overlords. There are rough sleepers almost every block, in corners and in alleys, tucked under rain-speckled sheets of cardboard, and even among the outward luxury of all the new shops and storefronts, it’s hard to not to notice that austerity is obviously not working for everyone. As if it was ever meant to.</p><p>They walk past Russell Square, past Senate House that resembles Arkham Asylum or some other Batman-villain establishment with its tall white towers, through Bloomsbury, and finally turn onto Tottenham Court Road. This is definitely a part of town where it helps to have your immortal parents’ money to get a place, though the London property market is an all-purpose nightmare and this is the case anywhere. Nile’s flat is far from fancy; it’s wedged into a workmanlike older brownstone above yet another Tesco Express, a narrow black door with tarnished brass numbers and old postboxes leading to the upstairs flats. Nicky looks at the handwritten labels, spots <em>Freeman, </em>and hits the buzzer. Nile could have used either his last name or Joe’s, but “Smith” and “Jones” are quite boring, and they understand the impulse to hold onto something from her human father. It’s the closest translation of “Nesanet,” and they would never want to take that away from her, or insist that their daughter carry on their (fake) names. They’ve never been a traditional family, after all. No need to start now.</p><p>Joe texted Nile when they got to St Pancras, telling her that they would be arriving soon, and she’s clearly been waiting for the doorbell. She opens it and breaks into a big smile. “Hey, you made it!”</p><p>“Yes, here we are.” Nicky steps inside and greets his daughter with a long hug and a warm kiss on the cheek. “It’s good to see you.”</p><p>“You too.” Nile grips his shoulders, looking him up and down. “You have a beard.”</p><p>“It’s just temporary,” Nicky says. “We thought we would be more convincing as your parents if we didn’t look like we were almost the same age.”</p><p>“It’s a little weird,” Nile admits, “but I’ll get used to it.” She turns to Joe and hugs him too. “Hey, Dad,” she says into his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”</p><p>Joe smiles at her, since his heart always wrenches a little when Nile calls him that; even now, part of him still fears that it should be reserved for Nicky. They have never bothered to decide whether to call one of them something else; <em>Dad </em>serves for them both, along with their first names, and they’re happy to leave it that way. She turns and beckons them upstairs. “Come on.”</p><p>Joe and Nicky climb the creaking steps, three flights, to Nile’s flat, which is at the very top. She opens the door and gestures them in; it’s small, but tidy and serviceable, even if most of her rent goes into paying for the location. “Does one of you want to check into the hotel?” she asks. “Where are you staying again?”</p><p>“The Radisson Blu on Bloomsbury Street,” Nicky says. While Nile’s apartment just about fits her and her stacks of books, it will strain at the seams if asked to contain her immortal dads in addition, and they <em>are </em>old enough that they don’t really want to cram together on a sagging sleeper couch. “It’s just a few minutes from here, I’ll go do that now. Be right back.”</p><p>With that, he hefts the suitcases and disappears down the stairs again, and Joe hears the building door open and close. Nicky emerges into the street below and glides out of sight with his usual grace, and Joe looks at Nile. “Hi. It is indeed good to see you. How are you feeling?”</p><p>“Good,” Nile says. “I think. Also like I want to sleep for a thousand years and never look at a book again and that I may have made a horrible mistake, but I’ve been told that’s normal.”</p><p>“At least the hard part’s over.” Joe sits down on the nearest available flat surface, which is a chair, after moving a stack of notes out of the way. “If the revisions didn’t kill you, this can’t?”</p><p>Nile makes a face. There was a Saga ™ with the external examiner at her viva, which stuck her with three months to make a slew of changes which nobody else had actually thought necessary, and even now that the thesis is printed, approved, bound, submitted, and otherwise done and dusted, the specter of past trauma looms large. “I mean,” she says. “Something like that.”</p><p>“What’s your thesis topic again?” Joe asks. Nile has been somewhat elusive on this topic, mostly telling them that it’s about medieval and early modern texts on magical and occult belief. “Do you know what you’re doing next, or should I not ask that?”</p><p>Nile turns away, twisting one of her braids, and Joe thinks he’s blown it with the dreaded “what are you planning to do now?” parental question. Most likely, anything she wants. Nile is a unique magical creature of mixed vampire-djinni blood and even before that, she was remarkable. She’s refused to let them pull their long-embedded strings on her behalf; she wants to earn whatever she gets, not be handed it as a nepotistic supernatural favor. Joe can respect that, even if he wants to help her and see that she’s doing well. Then Nile says, her voice a little too offhand, “Actually, my thesis is about the Seal of Solomon in medieval and Renaissance magical texts, and the semiotic evolvement of the symbol throughout history. Among other things, it’s the basis for the Star of David, so there’s a long intellectual genealogy of its use in – ”</p><p>“What?” Joe feels his stomach turn a somersault. He doesn’t know if he’s glad to hear this – even a little too glad – or not. “You were researching the <em>Seal of Solomon?”</em></p><p>“I mean.” Nile turns to face him, still looking flustered. “Why shouldn’t I? It’s kind of been an important part of our lives. I haven’t been lying to you and Nicky about it or anything. I just – I wasn’t entirely sure how you’d take it, and I…” She trails off. “Are you mad?”</p><p>“Mad? No, no, of course not.” Joe thinks it’s imperative to establish that. “You’re an adult, you can study anything you want, and it’s certainly not our place to tell you not to. You can take care of yourself, we just…” He pauses. “I’m admittedly a little upset that you felt like you needed to hide that from us, especially when you don’t know what could have taken notice.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.” Nile glances down. “It just felt too delicate, and you’d ask a ton of questions, and I was trying to keep you from constantly worrying that something would leap out and devour me. I’ve never seen any other creature at King’s – well, there was a visiting scholar who I’m pretty sure <em>was </em>a vampire, and maybe a few witches in the student union, but that’s it. The supernatural world has totally left me alone, and that was… I can’t lie, it was nice. To be here, and just be normal for a while.”</p><p>Joe looks down at the carpet. He can’t insist that he wants Nile to be independent and have her own life and then get affronted when she does it, and she has every right in the world to research this. It’s her heritage, her family history, her legacy. Haile Selassie, the last emperor of Ethiopia, was regarded as the heir of the Solomonic dynasty until his overthrow in 1974, but even he had nothing on Nile, Solomon and Makeda’s direct descendant, if she had decided to rule. It’s understandable that she didn’t want to dredge up all that old shit, maybe kept meaning to tell them but never found the right time, and perhaps she worried that they would rush to London and overprotect her if they knew. Joe can’t say that they wouldn’t have. Nicky has successfully overcome any hint of ancestrally possessive vampiric urges, whether with his mate or his daughter. Not for him any patriarchal heterosexist bullshit, no sir. But if he did have any inkling that Nile was in danger, it would be incredibly hard to ignore. Nile might feel like she had to give a book report on her research every night. At least she told them now. That counts.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Nile says again, when Joe still doesn’t speak. “I swear, if I ever thought that shady creatures were hanging around, or that I was in danger, I would have called at once and told you. I just – ”</p><p>“No. No, don’t apologize.” Joe holds up a hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m glad that you know about this. Is – is that what you want? Being normal?”</p><p>He tries to keep any accusation out of his voice, since he knows this is different for her, something she can regard nostalgically. Nile was born human, after all, and even after all this time, there must be a small part of her that feels relief when she can slip away from the supernatural. It’s wonderful and fantastic and all that, but when you live there every day, it becomes just humdrum reality, and there are plenty of reasons to keep away from bickering creature politics. Just because she’s studying the academic theory of the Seal doesn’t mean that she has any interest in finding the actual Ring again. Joe shouldn’t push her on that. Even – especially – since the last time he went after it with the idea of fixing his family life, he blew it up instead. They never found Musa, never freed him. They tried all the right ways, the harder and longer ways, even the underhanded ways, and they never succeeded in breaking the eternal exile that keeps Joe out of the jinn world. He’s thought about the irony sometimes, that they started out with Nicky as the one separated from any others of his kind, and now it’s him. He’s not even sure if Maryam and Muhammad and Ismail are still alive. He hasn’t seen them since the twelfth century. But if he ever does come up with some way to get back home, and Sa’id finds out –</p><p>Joe grimaces. He avoids thinking about Sa'id ibn al-Maḏhab at all costs, and at least he got another family to compensate him for the loss – as if it ever works like that, trading off one set of loved ones for another. Maybe the Golden One is dead, and Sa’id has become High King. Has he changed his mind, forgiven, forgotten? It’s not as if Joe has any scrap of feelings remaining for the old lover who betrayed and almost killed them, but when he keeps missing the magical world so much he can’t stand it… if there was some way to finally, <em>finally </em>right a long-standing wrong, if he could go <em>back… </em>is that why Nile was careful about letting on what she was doing? Afraid that if he knew, he might ask – might insist – that they use it, and watch everything go to hell all over again?</p><p>“Are you okay?” Nile asks. “Dad?”</p><p>“I’m fine.” Joe forces a smile that hopefully doesn’t look as plastic as it feels. “What’s for dinner?”</p><p>Since Nicky and Nile are both more than old enough to eat whatever they like, one of the perks of vampiric age, Nile has whipped up a gourmet spread, and when Nicky returns from checking into the hotel, they sit down around her tiny table and dig in. Sensing the shift in the mood, Nicky glances between them with brow furrowed. “Did I miss something?”</p><p>“It’s all right,” Nile says. With a glance, she asks Joe if they can keep this quiet for now, and he offers a nod, though he doesn’t keep anything from Nicky and he’s going to tell him as soon as they get back to the hotel. “We were just talking about my thesis.”</p><p>Nicky nods, diplomatically agreeing that this is clearly a traumatic topic, and the rest of dinner is accomplished with light and general conversation, Nile telling them about her life here and the people she’s hoping to introduce them to at the reception tomorrow evening, asking how things are in Malta and what they’ve been up to lately. Then she gets up, goes to the counter, and removes the real reason why she can’t have a roommate. She prepares two elegant blood cocktails, which she and Nicky need for the nourishment; the food they just shared was for Joe’s benefit and so they could enjoy the taste, but they’re still starving. Try explaining <em>that </em>to a nice young London twenty-something, who would find bags of blood in the fridge and be convinced that their unassuming grad-student roommate was a serial killer. It might not be the weirdest thing that happened to someone trying to rent a flat in this city, but it’s better not to find out.</p><p>Joe has obviously been married to (and father of) a vampire more than long enough to find any of this off-putting, and he sits at the table as Nicky and Nile sip their sophisticated sanguineous beverages. When they finish, Nile starts clearing the dishes and says that they’re probably tired from the travel, and they recognize this as a polite signal that she’s ready to have her space back for the evening. They <em>are </em>tired, and they kiss her goodbye at the door, promising to return tomorrow morning so they can run around London. Then Joe and Nicky descend the stairs, emerge into the warm summer night, and walk back to the hotel, an elaborate Edwardian confection of stone just across Great Russell Street from the British Museum. Joe casts an arch look at it. “Think we should perform a little cultural rescue while we’re here?”</p><p>Nicky raises an eyebrow. “If by that you mean should we organize a heist operation to repatriate the British Museum’s collection to its rightful owners, sympathetic, but no.”</p><p>“Well, you’re no fun,” Joe grumbles, as they go inside and up the velvet-carpeted stairs to their room, a corner suite with a king-sized bed. Nicky swipes the key card and they step inside, shutting the door and drawing the curtains. “You never know what might be in there.”</p><p>Nicky glances at him seriously, some of the teasing gone from his expression. As they unzip their suitcases in search of their pajamas, he says, “Are you all right? What were you and Nile talking about? Just her thesis, or…”</p><p>“It was her thesis, but…” Despite his resolve to tell Nicky immediately, Joe finds himself wavering. The Ring of Sulaiman has cast such a long and terrible shadow that he almost fears to speak the name, in case that makes it all happen again. He can’t stand that, he can’t deal with it, and it doesn’t matter, not right now, not here, when it’s just them, and they are safe and together and in love. He smiles instead, running his hands seductively up Nicky’s bare chest, smooth and cool as marble in the lamplight. “Are we going to enjoy ourselves on vacation, or…?”</p><p>This is rather transparently a dodge, not least because they enjoy themselves like this plenty when at home too, but Nicky lets it pass without comment. He kisses Joe thoroughly, and they make their way to the bed, finding their way together with kisses and touches and whispers, moving together in the union which has never ceased to lose any of its delight and fulfillment over the centuries. Joe throws his head back, hips arching, hands clutching Nicky’s as his mate, his husband, his true love, pushes them into the pillows, thrusting with that delightful vampiric strength that Joe feels to the back of his teeth. <em>This is what matters. You and him and your daughter. Everything else can wait. </em>And it does seem that way. It does.</p><p>He only prays it’s so.</p><p>***</p><p>Nile is, for the most part, genuinely excited about her dads being in London. A PhD is a big deal, even if she feels as if nothing she’s done in the previous nine hundred years of her life was either that tedious or that excruciating, and she’s proud of the result. She just… well, if she was honest, she knows that she should have told them straight-up what her thesis was about, and now it looks as if she’s being deliberately deceptive and evasive. She’s not, she’s <em>not</em>, she’s perfectly within her rights to do this, and in some ways, she’s surprised that she waited this long to look. But then again, for several centuries after her transformation, all of them wanted to forget that their first search for the Ring ever happened. Keep it hidden forever in the Tian Shan. Focus on becoming the family they still had not quite consciously decided to be before their hand was forced. Deal with Yusuf’s permanent exile. Everything. She needed the time, the space, the distance, before she could even think of touching it again.</p><p>At the end of it, Nile isn’t sure where it’s left her. Living the life of an overworked twenty-eight-year-old postgraduate student (the current version of her ID says she was born in 1990) has admittedly been a relief, even as it comes with its own aggravations. At least she’s not comically broke. Joe and Nicky have always been generous about making sure she has everything she needs, and Nile’s grateful. She loves them dearly. They’re her parents, in every way that matters. But magic doesn’t stop things from being difficult. They just get difficult in new ways.</p><p>She can’t deny that she’s had the same thoughts that she suspects Joe was having, that look in his eye when she mentioned her research. One look at the world these days makes you sorely wish that some superpowered champion of conscience could swoop down and knock away all the terrible things: climate change, populist right-wing governments, white supremacy, corporate ultra-monopolies, late-stage capitalism, terrorism, racism, misogyny, homophobia – you name it. Nile has lived long enough to totally disbelieve in any comforting myth of progress, wherein humanity proceeds in a demurely straight line from a state of less enlightenment to more. It goes back and forth, and right now, it’s swung to a particularly unbearable extreme. And if <em>you </em>could dig up the magical ring you gave up out of an excess of conscience nine centuries ago, put it on, snap your fingers, and erase Donald Trump, wouldn’t you be at least a <em>little </em>tempted?</p><p>Nile is aware that it doesn’t work like that, that if she assumed ultimate power, there would be a terrible price to pay, and it might make her into someone she still has no wish to be. But if she dreamed once upon a time of freeing half-bloods, isn’t this so much larger? All this time, all the research she’s done, learning about the Seal of Solomon… now she’s better prepared, the devil on her shoulder whispers. Now she isn’t just blindly fumbling in the dark. Now she knows exactly what she might do with it, she’s not a dangerous amateur. That’s hard to resist. Maybe she was hoping Joe would tell her not to, but she knew that he wouldn’t. And that…</p><p>Nile rolls over restlessly, pummeling her pillow. At least her night-owl schedule has been nothing strange (indeed, the correct if cruel observer might remark that there are very few differences between vampires and graduate students) and the general lack of strong sunlight in London, while it is a pain for everyone else, has worked to her benefit. She can go out in it, no problem, but while she does not sparkle, thanks very much, it’s difficult not to notice her uncanny nature when she’s standing in the sun. She’s the only creature in the world, so far as she knows, like herself: a vampire, but with enough djinn blood that she’s resistant to heat and light and fire. She’s beautiful and strange and deeply jarring to humans who encounter her unexpectedly. She’s gotten a shit-ton of phone numbers from strangers, whether or not she wants them, and all she has to do to shut up catcallers is to flash her fangs, a gift which frankly every woman should have. But like the reverse of every cliché teenage makeover movie where the ugly duckling becomes a beautiful swan, Nile sometimes just wants to be left the hell alone with her coffee and her stack of revision notes and her existential despair about how she could have ever decided to do this, not trail a string of bedazzled admirers everywhere. Tough life, perhaps, but still. Every woman likewise knows how difficult and entitled men can get.</p><p>She decides several times, sternly, that she’ll tell Dad tomorrow, if Joe hasn’t done so already. Nicky obviously tried very hard to give his daughter a far better vampiric upbringing than he ever had; he nursed her conscientiously through all the blood hungers and violent feeding urges, never left her side, constantly reminded her who she was, loved and cared for her, so that she settled quickly and more or less happily into her new state of being. As promised, they even went back to Nile’s village in Dembiya, so she could see her mother and brother and Alimayu again. Though when that visit involved having to explain that you’re an immortal supernatural creature, that they will get old and die and you won’t, that your life is no longer yours or theirs, that a great divide will exist between you from now on…</p><p>Nile closes her eyes determinedly, trying to keep her mind quiet enough to slip off, and finally, though it takes a considerable effort, she does. She awakes early and sees that she has several text messages, blearily thumbs them open, and feels like she’s missed a step going downstairs.</p><p>Jordan Montoya is a tall, no-nonsense Latina lesbian with a shaved head, a lot of opinions on postcolonial literature, and the ability to kick almost anyone’s ass at a friendly game of football, so they have been avidly watching the World Cup. She’s a year behind Nile; she’s planning to submit her PhD next fall if everything proceeds on schedule. They’ve also been dating, if you can call it that, for about eighteen months. It’s casual, they haven’t even made it clear if it’s exclusive, and Jay, while she must have some suspicion that Nile isn’t normal, has never asked for details. Indeed, Nile hasn’t volunteered the full and insane truth of her identity to anyone at King’s. Just that she’s originally from Ethiopia, she was adopted by her dads as a teenager, and they live in Malta, all of which is entirely accurate. Except, you know, for everything that it leaves out.</p><p><em>Hey, </em>Jay’s first text reads. <em>Some weird lady was here last night asking 4 u. </em></p><p>The second, <em>She says she’s your grandmother??</em></p><p>The third, <em>Are ur dads here? Did they know about this?</em></p><p>The fourth, <em>That was kinda creepy. Look just text me back when u get a sec. – xoxo J</em></p><p>“What the fuck…?” Nile says out loud, bolting upright in bed and staring at the phone screen. Her <em>grandmother? </em>What the <em>hell? </em>Her human grandmothers have obviously been dead for centuries, and the only other person she can think of who might qualify, which turns her stomach in a painful, leaping burst of hope, is Maryam. Is <em>Maryam </em>in London? Is she even alive? Did she decide to hell with Sa’id’s draconian pronouncements, leave Cairo or wherever she’s living now, and decide to find her son again? Even the possibility makes Nile’s mind race. She doesn’t know how Maryam would find out where Nile was studying, but she’s a djinn too, after all. Maybe she did a little hocus-pocus, and all the years apart mean nothing.</p><p>She stares at the phone, trying to think how to answer. She’ll probably see Jay at the reception tonight, since Jay has wanted to meet Joe and Nicky for a while, and they’ll all be there to fete Nile’s success. But the burning question of how on earth a woman calling herself Nile’s grandmother has descended on an unsuspecting Jay seems like it might merit first priority. Jay seems slightly rattled, which isn’t like her, though Maryam isn’t that frightening. Maybe it’s just a random weirdo? Some older woman who wants… something? <em>What?</em></p><p>Nile dawdles for several more minutes until she punches out something trite, assuring Jay that they’ll talk about this tonight. Her parents are in town, yes, and she’s looking forward to introducing them, but they didn’t say anything about grandparents making it out for graduation. That seems best. No need to let on just how unexpected this is. Not until she figures out more.</p><p>Nile plugs the phone back into the charger – it must have gotten disconnected sometime in the night, because it’s only at 85% – then gets up, showers, dresses, and sucks down the remains of the blood bag. There are fancy blood-replacement drinks available, if you know where to buy them; ONeg is overprocessed, and Red is overpriced, but they do the job. Nile has avoided shitting where she sleeps, as the saying goes. She hasn’t fed on any of her classmates at King’s, and this is animal blood, readily available from most of the ordinary butcher’s markets in London. If she needs a human feed, she goes somewhere else, outside the city. But as she swallows, a thought comes to her that’s so shocking and impossible that it immediately boomerangs off again. What if <em>grandmother </em>meant – ?</p><p>Nope. Not even a chance. She goes back to the bedroom to grab her phone – it’s crawled up to 97%, and a message from Jay with a worrisomely terse <em>K see u tonight. </em>Telling herself that everything is fine, Nile texts Nicky that she’s leaving her place now and it’ll be a quick walk to the hotel, if they want to meet her outside. See you soon.</p><p>She trots down Tottenham Court Road, pulling on her sunglasses, though the light is mostly grey and the air is warm and muggy. Bloomsbury is awake and doing its thing, and Nile inhales the scents and rhythms of the neighborhood that have become familiar to her over the last four years. She reaches the Radisson and waits until her dads emerge, ready for a day of peregrination about the city. Nile offers to take them to the British Museum, ironically, because she finds it extremely interesting, if not quite how they intended it. At that, Joe and Nicky exchange a look she can’t quite decipher, and agree. It’s just across the street, after all. Easy starting point.</p><p>They buy their tickets and go in, as Joe and Nicky make scoffing noises at whatever inaccuracies they encounter on the displays. Nile spent a lot of time here in the first year of her research, as well as the British Library, which holds the extant versions of the manuscripts about the Seal of Solomon. She wants to tell Nicky that she found the <em>Key of Solomon </em>in a sixteenth-century copy, and the “Jewish Rabbi of Hierusalem” credited for first translating it was his friend Samuel ben Kalonymus, even if history doesn’t know that. (The rabbi’s son, Judah ben Samuel, was also a prominent scholar of mysticism and magic, and wrote the book <em>Sefer Hasidim, </em>which is notable for its discussion on <em>alukah </em>– perhaps he remembered Nicky’s visits to his family’s house when he was a boy.) As they’re wandering through the collections of the Early Crusader Period, Nile points at an item proudly mounted in the glass case. “You think there’s any chance that’s real?”</p><p>Joe and Nicky peer at the item in question, which is a ring. (That in itself is not unusual; there are a lot of rings in the British Museum, including one which purportedly belonged to Richard the Lionheart.) For its part, this one purports to have belonged to Baldwin I, King of Jerusalem 1100–1118. It’s gold, set with a simple black stone, and Nile has been drawn to it before, though she can’t say why. It’s not as if their memories of Baldwin’s involvement were all that pleasant.</p><p>Joe glances at the ring, starts to turn away – then stops, frowns, and looks back. While it might be a no-no, he puts a hand on the glass, mutters something, and his frown deepens. “I can’t tell for sure,” he says. “It’s very old and if it has been used before, it’s not been for a long time. But I think… I think that’s a djinn ring.”</p><p>Nicky and Nile look at him sharply. “A ring <em>with </em>a djinn in it?” Nicky asks. “Didn’t Wahdeliadj – and Andromache – say something about King Baldwin having a magical ring?”</p><p>The name of the witch, who they haven’t seen in almost a hundred years, falls over their conversation, this ordinary day out, like a cold shadow bringing the specter of the magical past. Nile’s never been sure what became of Andy, and she’s always wondered. The two witches worked with Joe, Nicky, and Nile on several more occasions, and the five of them eventually became quite close. But then something terrible happened to Quynh, and Andy… well, Andy lost her mind. They tried to help her. They all did. But when there’s one thing they very obviously could have done, and they didn’t, and Nile knows it, knows it and can’t forget –</p><p>“Maybe,” Joe says. “I don’t know if this was the one or not. But yes, there is a chance that is real.”</p><p>He glances at Nicky again as he says this, and Nicky looks back at him with an imperturbable expression. They move on quickly, to avoid the wrath of curators eager to tell them off for getting too handsy with the glass; it might trigger a security alert. Everything in here is pretty much priceless, after all, even if all three of the family members have strong opinions on how these gains have been ill-gotten in the first place. They finish up their wanderings, step out into a reasonably nice midmorning, get coffee, and decide where to go next. The reception starts at six, and they’ll want to go back and change beforehand. Just general-purpose touring, then.</p><p>Nile, Joe, and Nicky enjoy a perfectly pleasant afternoon rattling around London, as the boys make occasional comments about how the place has changed and Nile wonders if she should say something now so there aren’t any unpleasant surprises at the reception. It’s not as if she has any qualms about introducing Jay to her parents. She’s dated a few women before, and Joe and Nicky are obviously gay as a maypole. It’s just… she doesn’t know. Is she overthinking this? She’s almost definitely overthinking this.</p><p>Around four o’clock, they make their way back to Bloomsbury, Joe and Nicky return to the hotel for a little downtime, and Nile climbs the steep stairs up to her flat (renting on the top floor, while picturesque, does come with downsides). As she opens the door, she stops short. Despite her determination not to make this into a thing, she is almost positive that someone has been in here while they were out. And not just a housebreaker or lost neighbor or other annoying but inconsequential human, but another vampire. The scent has a particular weight to it – almost a familiarity – that strikes Nile immediately, and she goes tense, preparing to fight some mysterious bloodsucker who might be hiding under the sofa. What the <em>hell? </em>Four years in London with no supernatural incidents at all, and now in twenty-four hours –</p><p>Nothing stirs. Nobody’s here. Maybe she was making it up.</p><p>Unsettled, Nile takes a nap, cracks a can of Red since none of the hors d’oeuvres at the reception will satisfy her, then freshens up into something that says “respectable and professional doctor of history.” She puts on nice slacks, a blouse and blazer and jewelry, tidies her braids up into a bun and applies a little makeup. Then she slips on her serious scholar leather loafers, grabs her purse, makes sure she has her Oyster card, and glances around the apartment again, making sure she didn’t leave a window open. It’s the fourth floor, but a vampire could have climbed.</p><p>Nothing. It’s fine. Nile steps out, locks up, returns to the hotel to retrieve her equally spiffed-up vampire and djinn sires, and they make their way to Russell Square to catch the 188 bus down to the Strand. The reception is being held in Somerset House, the eighteenth-century palace and arts center next door to the main KCL university buildings, and they enter to a cognoscente hum of music, chatter, and academics let out of their offices and trying to pretend that they are good at socialization. The doors are opened onto the river terrace, since it’s a nice night, and Nile schmoozes and exchanges congratulations with the other history grads. She is still looking for Jay when the crowd parts and her supervisor says, “Congratulations, Nile. It’s so good to see you here this evening.”</p><p>“Ah – you too.” Nile nods back, only slightly awkwardly. “Can I introduce you? Dad, Dad, this is Dr. Meta Kozak, my supervisor. Meta, these are my parents, Nicky and Joe.”</p><p>“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Freeman.” Dr. Kozak reaches out and warmly shakes their hands, as Nicky charitably does not correct her on the last name and indeed looks rather flattered by it. “Nile is a very bright young woman. You must be very proud of her.”</p><p>Nicky and Joe make that slight coughing sound they always do whenever anyone calls one of them young, but they agree that yes, yes, they are, and the three of them chat. Nile has always been a little intimidated by Dr. Kozak. She’s from somewhere in Eastern Europe – Czech, Polish, or possibly Romanian – and is one of those academic wunderkinds who landed a permanent position just two years out of their doctorate and has spent most of their time in the ivory tower. She might be Czech, since Nile spent last summer on a research trip in Prague – they have, of course, an excellent collection of historical manuscripts relating to the mystical, the magical, and the strange – and Dr. Kozak had a lot of friends there, but she has friends everywhere. Being her student has opened a lot of doors for Nile at archives and libraries and obscure special collections, for which she is grateful. She does like the woman, which is not always a given when her entire job is to rip Nile’s work to shreds at monthly intervals (but you know, in a constructive way). KCL can be notorious for low levels of student satisfaction; the joke runs that everyone hates it, but they would still rather be miserable here than at UCL. But it’s a name-brand university, it looks good on your CV, and Nile’s own experiences have been mostly positive. That, and –</p><p>Just then, she sees someone standing a few feet away from Dr. Kozak, with a look on his face as if he was interrupted from his own conversation with her and is waiting, not altogether patiently, for her to get done with Nicky and Joe and return to him. Nile hasn’t seen him before, or at least she thinks. Then a wash of recognition hits her like a punch, and her jaw drops. Not believing it, not understanding how it’s even possible, she blurts out, <em>“Stephen de</em> <em>Méric?”</em></p><p>He turns around sharply and catches sight of her. At that, Nile can see that no, it’s not the same obnoxious human she knew many centuries ago in Jerusalem – but the resemblance is strong enough, and he clearly answers to the name, that it’s not coincidental either. “Beg pardon,” he drawls, in an inherently annoying Home Counties accent. “Do we know each other?”</p><p>“I’m… I don’t think so.” Nile feels wrong-footed, off guard, for no reason she can entirely articulate. “I’m sorry, you just – reminded me of someone.”</p><p>“Stephen Merrick.” He swaggers forward and offers a hand. “And you are?”</p><p>“Nile Freeman.” With nothing else to do, Nile shakes it. “I’m a student of Dr. Kozak’s.”</p><p>“Are you?” Stephen Merrick – is this some great-great-great-etc. grandson? – eyes her avidly. “What exactly do you work on?”</p><p>Nile opens her mouth, about to concoct some lie, though she doesn’t know why. At that moment, however, Dr. Kozak turns around. “Oh, Nile, I see you’ve met Mr. Merrick. He’s the CEO of Merrick Pharmaceuticals – he’s a King’s alum, actually, and he’s just made an extremely generous donation to the medical school.”</p><p>“And the leftists like to say that billionaires never do anything useful with their wealth,” Merrick says, still smirking. “But please, don’t let me interrupt, Meta. These are – ?”</p><p>Nile narrows her eyes at him. KCL is world-renowned for its medical and biomedical programs, so that makes sense so far as it goes, but the reason for Merrick’s presence at a function for the history department is less clear. Maybe he’s friends with Dr. Kozak and decided to come along, maybe he took some of her courses while he was at uni, maybe he’s here for someone else, though Nile pities any woman who might be dating him. She’s also not sure she likes the way he’s looking at her fathers, though Nicky pulls himself together and politely introduces them. It’s a mildly unpleasant but ultimately trivial interaction, especially when Merrick moves off to inflict someone else with the pleasure of his company. But Nile catches him glancing back at them again, and she doesn’t know, she just… doesn’t like it.</p><p>She looks around. Still no Jay. She said she was going to be here, right? It’s not like her not to turn up, especially when she clearly wanted to talk about whatever happened last night. Nile digs out her phone to see if she’s missed a message, but she hasn’t, and she can’t resist thumbing out a quick <em>Where are you???</em>, hoping that the Tube had another Tube mishap or something, and that there aren’t any more sinister reasons for the no-show. Jay can’t be that angry about some random creepy woman, can she? If something was <em>really </em>wrong –</p><p>No. No, this is fine, everything is fine. When the reception winds down and people start to leave, and it’s clear that Jay isn’t coming, Nile swallows her worry, thanks Dr. Kozak again, distractedly accepts more congratulations, and collects Nicky and Joe, who have been having an intense conversation in a corner. As they leave Somerset House – it’s summertime, so though it’s late in the evening, there’s still plenty of light in the sky – Nicky says, “So your thesis is on the Seal of Solomon?”</p><p>Nile flinches, even though she has no reason to be ashamed. “Yes.”</p><p>Nicky looks at her again, his face soft and worried. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”</p><p>Nile opens her mouth, isn’t sure if this is a conversation for 8:30 pm on a public London street, and shuts it. They reach the bus stop and stand there in silence for a few moments. Then a drunk girl staggers up to Nicky, stares at him adoringly, and says, “My god, you’re just like, <em>really </em>fucking fit. Obnoxiously fucking fit. D’you want to shag?”</p><p>Joe looks outraged, but Nicky lays a hand on his arm. “I’m a thousand-year-old vampire and this is my immortal husband,” he says, gravely polite. “So I’ll have to pass, but thanks.”</p><p>“Well done, mate.” The girl nods at Joe, taking this setback entirely in stride, and continues off down the street, as Nicky glances after her with the automatic reflex to make sure she gets home all right. The bus comes then, and they get on it. Nile’s mind is racing. Should she ask them to come back to her place and discuss all this – whatever <em>this </em>even is – or just go to sleep and hope everything is less weird tomorrow?</p><p>It’s not a long ride back to Russell Square, and they get off and walk back to Tottenham Court Road together. As they’re exchanging good nights at the front door of Nile’s flat, Nicky says, “Stephen Merrick – where do I remember that name from?”</p><p>“He was in Jerusalem,” Nile says. “Or rather, his ancestor was. Looking for – for the Ring.”</p><p>“Wait, Stephen de Méric?” Nicky looks startled, then alarmed. “King Baldwin’s henchman?”</p><p>“I think that was him, yes.” Nile pauses. “It’s probably nothing.”</p><p>Her sire looks at her, decides he won’t overreact if she’s not worried, and nods. He and Joe hug her, tell her again that they love her and they’re very proud, and head off, and Nile goes upstairs with the idea of making herself a hot cocoa – it’s nice no matter what species you are – getting into bed, and watching some <em>Great British Bake-Off </em>or <em>Queer Eye</em>, the ultimate comfort viewing for stressed PhD students. She reaches the top, takes out her keys to unlock the door, and –</p><p>It’s already open. It’s ajar.</p><p>There’s someone inside. She can smell it.</p><p>For a moment, Nile freezes. Then she reminds herself that she has nothing to be afraid of. She is a vampire/djinn, the heiress of Solomon, and nobody is breaking into <em>her</em> apartment and getting away with it. Is it Merrick? She doesn’t have any idea what he’d want, but he clearly knew something about her, and if he left the reception to go snooping, she is going to <em>kill</em> –</p><p>Nile rushes in, prepared to do battle with interfering CEOs –</p><p> – and stops dead.</p><p>There’s someone inside, all right, but it isn’t Merrick. It’s a woman that Nile has never seen before either, and this time for real. No half-recognitions or strange similarities, she’s outright a stranger. She’s beautiful and looks about fifty years old, with a silver streak in her upswept black hair, blue eyes, crimson lips, and effortlessly stylish clothing. There is also no doubt whatsoever that she is a vampire. If the scent wasn’t enough, the smile that she offers Nile, her perfect white fangs gleaming in the dimness, would do the trick. “Ah,” she says. “My dear. I’ve been waiting for you. For <em>quite </em>a long time, really. It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.”</p><p>“What…” Nile can’t make <em>any </em>sense of this. She should possibly run at her anyway, but it seems uncouth to rugby-tackle an elegant older woman with no preliminary, and something else, some kind of fearsomely powerful mesmer, is holding her in place. She couldn’t lift a finger against this invader even if she wanted to, and the awareness of her powerlessness rasps against her. Her tongue weighs a thousand tons. “Who… <em>who…?”</em></p><p>“I suppose I cannot fault you for not knowing, though if I had my way, things would be very different.” The woman clucks in disapproval and glides closer, making no sound on Nile’s creaky old floorboards, gripping her by the chin and turning her face to the light. “You are a lovely girl. When I heard you were an African, I was unsure, but yes, yes. Most satisfactory.”</p><p>“Wh…” Nile isn’t sure whether her inability to speak is due to the mesmer or simple, mind-melting shock. <em>“Who are you?”</em></p><p>“Ah, yes.” The vampire smiles ruefully and steps back. “My name is Fredegund,” she says. “And I, my dearest Nile, am your grandmother.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’m sorry,” Nile stammers. “You’re my <em>what?”</em></p><p>“Grandmother.” The vampire – Fredegund – raises a perfect black eyebrow. It cannot be denied that her contour game is on point. “Your father’s mother. I don’t suppose he’s ever told you about me.”</p><p>Nile stares at her. The shock is still coursing through her like a freezing river, but anger is burning up swiftly in its wake. “Do you mean you’re – you’re <em>Nicky’s </em>sire? The one who attacked him a thousand years ago, left him in the woods, never came back for him, and now you think you can walk in a literal <em>millennium </em>later and expect that any of us will be happy to see you? He never told me about you because he <em>never knew anything about you! </em>What did you do with Jordan? I swear, if you laid a finger on her – ”</p><p>“Calm down, dear. All this shouting is bad for your complexion.” Fredegund doesn’t seem fazed by this torrent of accusations. “As for your little friend, I decided it was best that she did not reach you beforehand and prejudice you with any unjust tales about me. I had a sip and mesmered her to forget that she ever laid eyes on me. Do keep her out of any further interference, won’t you? Especially if you’d prefer me not to have to do it again. Any time humans touch something they don’t understand, it gets messy.”</p><p>“Are you <em>serious?” </em>Nile doesn’t care if this is a technically long-lost relative or not, she isn’t interested in anything this woman has to say. “You fed on Jay <em>and </em>forced her to forget that she met you? Wow, you’re a <em>real </em>winner!”</p><p>“Please, please.” Fredegund raises a languid, glittering hand. “Can we hasten past this understandable but useless shouting at me, and make more civil acquaintance? Is this your entire place of residence? It does not reflect the full majesty due to you, as a princess thrice over. Yes?”</p><p>Nile opens her mouth to argue that her flat isn’t bad, it’s rather nice as London student flats go, but will get them even further off track, and is detrimental to her aims of ordering Fredegund to exit the premises immediately. The invitation protocol that is supposed to govern whether vampires can enter a property sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t, and it’s more applicable to humans, anyway. As her sire’s sire, the matriarch of her bloodline, evidently Fredegund can waltz in whenever she pleases, since she outranks Nile on – several levels, apparently. Nile refuses to give her the satisfaction of asking what she meant by that “princess thrice over” comment. At last she says, “Leave.”</p><p>“Not quite, dear.” Fredegund smiles. Her English is husky and accented, sounds like a glamorous heavy-smoker French torch singer from the 1950s or something, which fits with her general aesthetic. “Surely you wish to know why I have stayed away from my own son so long and come back only now. For one thing, I know who you are, daughter of Solomon, even before you became my blood. So – ”</p><p>Nile is about to snap that there’s no way in <em>hell </em>she is retrieving the Ring of Solomon for this woman, but that is a huge and wildly sensitive bit of intelligence to drop, confirming that it’s something she is able to do. She can’t be sure if that’s what Fredegund wants, but she really doesn’t seem like the warm and cuddly type to reconnect with lost family just for the sake of it. A vampire grandmother was never going to wear flowery aprons and bake cookies and spoil you whenever you came over to her house, but does this lunatic Edith Piaf with fangs really think Nile will happily skip up to her own father and ask if he might like to meet the woman who abandoned him in the <em>eleventh friggin’ century?</em> There’s deadbeat parents, and then there’s <em>this.</em></p><p>They stare at each other, locked in standoff. Nile tries to move, and Fredegund stares dead into her eyes, causing her to freeze again. The mesmer, the vampiric hypnotism that can make a person relaxed and suggestible and less alarmed about, say, having their throat chomped on, can be used as this kind of weapon, but to say the least, neither Nicky nor Nile have ever done so. If it’s used like this, it overrides a human’s instinct to flee, forcibly holds them in place whether or not they have agreed to be fed on, and is obviously a serious breach of consent and agency. Fredegund’s casual employment of it reinforces the already-clear point that she’s not really here to engage as equals or hear Nile out, no matter what she claims. She’s used to controlling, commanding, dominating, doing what she wants, an old-school vampire in the worst sense of the word. If Nile could just get to her phone and call her parents – but honestly, if she was Nicky and she walked into this with no warning –</p><p>“Now then,” Fredegund goes on, when Nile doesn’t contribute anything to the conversation. “We can proceed in this tiresome fashion for a while, or you can acknowledge that I am a great deal older and much more powerful than you, and you will only wear yourself out to no point and purpose. I do not want to cause you any damage, but if you attempt anything rash, I may be forced to do so. Or we could sit down and have a proper conversation like civilized beings. If nothing else, you must have questions.”</p><p><em>Damn it. </em>Nile hates that this is the most effective thing the Queen of the Night has said yet. Obviously, yes, she does. She has a <em>lot </em>of questions, on behalf of both herself and her family, and Fredegund seems willing to talk, though there’s no way to trust anything that comes out of her mouth. Nile looks down to see that her toes are barely scraping the floor – Fredegund hasn’t even needed to lay a finger on her, because the force of the mesmer is suspending her in midair with no effort at all. Nile hasn’t met many other vampires aside from Nicky; he’s never entirely lost his wariness about integrating more deeply into supernatural society, because both of them have wanted to avoid causing Joe any more pain about being separated from the magical world. That means that Nile has no awareness of ancient family dynamics, traditional notions of honor and hierarchy, which places Fredegund at the top of the heap no matter how little she has done to deserve it. Nile has laughed at pulp vampire romances and controlling, obsessive, patriarchal “heroes,” because they’re so alien to her experience. But this –</p><p>“Fine,” Nile says through clenched fangs. “Put me down. I won’t try to run. Or call anyone.”</p><p>Fredegund eyes her for a long moment, then makes a gesture. Nile’s feet regain relations with the floor, and she stumbles. She has an idiotic urge to offer Fredegund a drink, the reflex of a good hostess, except there’s no fresh blood left in the house, this woman doesn’t look like a Red or ONeg fan, and Nile would like to keep any further notion of biting (especially without consent) off the table. She says frostily, “Sit anywhere.”</p><p>“We really must work on your manners, dear.” Fredegund sweeps into the kitchen, looks around with wrinkled nose, and lifts a stack of books off a chair with two fingers (whether to demonstrate her strength or to avoid touching them is unclear). She seats herself with magisterial grace, crosses her ankles, and rests one bejeweled hand on the table. She is utterly out of place here, haughty and elegant as if hearing petitioners in some long-lost court, as she fixes Nile with her glittering blue-glass gaze. “Now then. Let us begin again. I am your grandmother. Your father Nicolò was the fifth of my blood sons. I regret that circumstances made it impossible for him to know that, but the laws of our world can be unforgiving, and I felt that he would be safer. That being so, I would like to ask if – ”</p><p>“<em>Hold </em>on.” Nile stares at her in disbelief. “What kind of explanation is that? That’s <em>bullshit. </em>You haven’t actually said anything about why you left him or – ”</p><p>“My dear, we will have time for all the exhausting tangents later.” Fredegund leans back in the chair. “This is an emergency, and I have reason to believe that you may be in danger too, though I am not yet certain from where. I came here hoping to recruit your help, not waste time in fruitless recriminations about the past.”</p><p>Nile feels as if she’s been hit in the face with a blunt object. She truly cannot believe the nerve of this woman. Fredegund has displayed less than zero understanding or remorse for abandoning Nicky – it’s not clear if it has crossed her mind again at all. You know what, Nile thinks. Now that I’ve met his mother, maybe it <em>is </em>a good thing that she never raised him or taught him anything about being a vampire. God only knows how he would have turned out if she did. But that does nothing to excuse it or make it right.</p><p>“Let me get this straight,” Nile says acidly. “You came here tonight to warn me about some mysterious danger that I <em>might </em>be in, because you’re just that conscientious a grandmother?”</p><p>“Sarcasm is unattractive in ladies, dear.” Fredegund looks at her mildly, still unruffled, and Nile <em>really </em>wants to punch this woman in the glacially perfect face. Not that it would get her anywhere, but it might make her feel better. “As a matter of fact, yes – and because it is related to the death of my last blood son, apart from your father. Your uncle, Diego de la Vega.”</p><p>“My… what?” This sudden realization of a whole other family, known only to be aware of its loss, feels like yet another betrayal. Not that Nile is certain she wanted to meet any of her possibly shithouse-rat-crazy vampire relatives, but she should have been given the <em>choice. </em>She’s already been denied the chance to bond with her djinni family, thanks to Prince Sa’id, but if she <em>could </em>have known the other side of the tree, and didn’t –</p><p>“Wait,” she says. “Diego de la <em>Vega? </em>As in Zorro the cartoon character?”</p><p>“He was not – ” Fredegund’s nostrils flare – “a cartoon character. He was great friends with that miserable little scribbler McCulley, though, who must have used him as the inspiration. He was born in Spain in the late eighteenth century, and I made him my son in the early nineteenth, after he had come to his family’s hacienda in California. He was in many respects like the legacy he was given. A principled vigilante who defended the poor and the Indians and all the rest, from the cruel padres of the missions and the colonial officials with their tax exactions. He came to London last year, and here he was killed. I have not yet found out by who. When I do, I will rip their head from their body, rend them into four pieces, and drain their blood.”</p><p>Nile sits there with her mouth open, unable to think what to answer first. Friggin’ <em>Zorro</em> was her uncle, and he was in London last year, and now he’s dead, and she never met him? From Fredegund’s description, he at least <em>sounds </em>like someone she might have gotten along with! She and Joe and Nicky have spent the centuries trying to help people, to make the humans’ lot better where they can, to use their immortality and strength and power in the service of the powerless, to make change the right way instead of lashing down on high with the cruel might of the Ring. Fredegund’s tone of voice when she talks about the late Diego larking off on his vigilante adventures doesn’t sound approving – she clearly thinks it’s foolish to waste one’s great skills on peasants – but she’s sworn to take bloody vengeance for his death. This woman makes <em>no </em>sense.</p><p>“So what?” Nile says. “Did you abandon him too?”</p><p>“Diego was aware of his bloodline.” Fredegund’s face flickers, but it’s hard to tell how. “He was the seventh son that I sired, an auspicious number, but by then, most of them were already dead. My sons tended to the ambitious and warlike.”</p><p>To Nile, that seems to be against the rules, at least as she learned them from Nicky. She herself deliberately gave up her claim to eternal power when she became a vampire, just because it was not fair to set herself up so far above the humans for all time, unable to ever be challenged by mortals. If Fredegund has often made sons from knights and lords and princes, men of arms and state, they might have interfered in human affairs for centuries, causing who knows what sort of ripple effects. “Is that even allowed?”</p><p>“You sound like Asher de Clermont.” Fredegund makes a deeply scornful noise. “Always fretting over the morality of our power and whether it was just to use it – the Knights of Lazarus were intended to handcuff us at every turn, self-loathing hypocrites that they were. In any event, Asher de Clermont is many years dead, and may he rot in hell. Will you help me learn who killed your uncle Diego or not?”</p><p>Nile has a vague awareness that the de Clermonts are one of the most prominent and powerful vampire families in France; she’s never met them and knows nothing else about them, but she has to agree that having some kind of check on supernatural power is a wise idea. “Why on earth,” she says, “am I going to do that?”</p><p>“Because of where he was last seen alive.” Fredegund looks directly at her. “On the Strand, in Westminster, very close to your university. King’s College London, isn’t it?”</p><p>Nile shuts her mouth so hard that she can hear her teeth click. She doesn’t want to ask how Fredegund knows that, or what this means. She feels like she’s been thrown out of a moving car and rolled over and over until absolutely nothing makes sense. This is too much, this is impossible to take in, she has not even managed to think about how Nicky (and Joe) is going to react to all this, and this blows a hole in all her claims that it’s been an uneventful four years far away from the supernatural and she’s never been in any danger. But Fredegund has to be lying. If there was a vampire abducted and murdered within spitting distance of KCL – allegedly Nile’s own uncle, moreover – surely she would have heard about it. She’s supposed to be graduating with her PhD and celebrating with her parents, for God’s sake! Not getting entangled in sordid vampire murder mysteries with the world’s worst grandmother! What the <em>hell!</em></p><p>“I’m sorry,” Nile says, very stiffly. “I don’t think I’m going to be any help to you.”</p><p>“Why not?” Fredegund, unsurprisingly, is still not giving it up. “If it is a matter of financial compensation, that can be arranged, distasteful as I find it to pay my own granddaughter like a mercenary in the midst of a matter of family pride. You don’t seem to have chosen a lucrative profession, my dear. Or if you think I would not be trusted to keep my word – ”</p><p>“It’s not that!” Nile knocks her chair over and stands up like a fury. Most of the time she’s pretty solidly vampire, but it’s her djinni blood that sears through her now, sparkling in angry embers around her hands and making her glow with a weird and unearthly light. “How do you not get it? How do you not realize how entitled and sociopathic you sound? In what world do you live in, where you think you can just waltz into my house, announce that you’re my grandmother and you have no regret over what you did to my father, that I had an uncle who’s now unfortunately dead, and that I’ll jump at the chance to help you dismember whoever killed him? What is <em>wrong </em>with you? I’ve heard you out. Now <em>leave!”</em></p><p>Fredegund’s eyes flick to Nile’s flaming fingers. There’s a look of distinct surprise on her face. To say the least, fire and vampires do not usually get along, and this means that there’s something she has not anticipated – yes, Nile thinks savagely, yes, there <em>definitely </em>is. There is a tenuous pause. Then Fredegund clears her throat. “How are you doing that?”</p><p>“No. You don’t get to learn anything else about me.” Nile extinguishes her fingers and folds her arms, so Fredegund is denied any further inspection of her powers or her heritage. “You forfeited that right before I was even born.”</p><p>Fredegund sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose like a put-upon schoolteacher. “You <em>are </em>proving to be rather intransigent about that,” she says. “Suddenly an advocate for exemplary parenting, are you? My son has done quite a suspect job with you, seeing as you know nothing about our customs. Oh, I suppose he is of the newfangled school of thought, yes? The one that is about <em>emotions? </em>Or perhaps he simply does not have the stomach to enact the discipline that is – ”</p><p>Nile is not going to sit here and listen to this woman disparage Nicky one instant longer. “He <em>loved </em>me. He <em>cared </em>for me. If ‘tradition’ meant that he was supposed to prepare me to fight to the death in a bloody battle for the Honor of the Family, I’m not sad at all that I missed out. How could he have known it anyway? <em>You abandoned him!”</em></p><p>“Very well. I see you will not be satisfied until I address that.” Fredegund’s mouth twists, and Nile feels that it’s giving her far too much credit to read a hint of weary guilt. “When I sired your father, I was… not at my best, I will admit. I had been trapped and tortured for many years, and only recently freed. I was not rational, I was not in command of myself, I was driven only with the need to grow strong again. One of my sons was killed in his search to find me, and I was insensate with that grief. When I found your father in his church in Acquasanta, I meant only to feed from him, but when I first tasted his blood, I was compelled by what I saw in him, how very unusual he was, how different from the sons I had made before. I am a Christian woman, and I am not without the fear of sin and damnation. If I had a priest for a son, perhaps he would learn the mysteries better in regard to our kind, how to reconcile the prospect of being shut out from divine grace. So yes, I sired him. Then – ”</p><p>Here she pauses, whether for effect or because (doubtful) she actually needs a moment to collect herself. Nile is still eyeing her very narrowly. “And?”</p><p>“There in the woods, we were found.” Fredegund shrugs. “I am not certain by who, only that they saw me hunched over the lifeless body of a priest, concluded accurately that I had killed him, and drove me off with curses and blows and crude human weapons. I was weak from my captivity. I could not resist. So I fled, meant to return to him soon, and then by the time I did, he was gone. My other sons found me. They took charge of nursing me back to health. And so, I will admit, I forgot about your father. He was a by-blow, some phantom of my madness, until I half-convinced myself that he had never existed at all. Finally I told my favorite son, my eldest, about him. He took the notion into his head that Nicolò could be a rival, found a competing branch of our family, or challenge him somehow. And so…”</p><p>Fredegund pauses again, her magnificent face imperturbable. “I told Chlothar that there was nothing to fear, he should leave it. He said that evidently I had not learned that Nicolò di Genova had become involved with the Ring of Solomon, and could soon become a ruler greater than any of us. He suspected – from your reaction, it seems accurately – that Nicolò would never forgive me for abandoning him, and dedicate himself to our destruction. He said it was what he or any of his brothers would have done. It was what any king would have done, <em>has </em>done, for fear that an upstart relative could take his inheritance away from him. So he vowed to find and destroy this miserable bastard brother. He whipped my other sons into a fervor over it, he would have hunted Nicolò down to the ends of the earth, and – ”</p><p>There’s a pause. Fredegund’s lips go tight. Then she says, with shocking matter-of-factness, “I would not permit it. Nor could I permit this carbuncle in my family, this cancer, to fester past control or mending. So I took a decision. I killed Chlothar.”</p><p>“You what?” Nile goggles at her. “You said he was your eldest, your favorite!”</p><p>“He was.” Fredegund’s eyes glimmer, almost as if she might cry, though Nile still doesn’t trust that she feels actual emotions. “He was my <em>human </em>son, the one I carried in my womb, the one I birthed in blood and pain, the one I fought for all of my mortal life to protect and see raised to his rightful throne. And then when he was old enough, I gave him the gift of immortality, so he was my son twice over. You cannot imagine the pain it caused me to kill him. But he had gone mad, he was a danger to the rest of us, he would have led a rebellion among his brothers – and yes, he would have killed your father, and you, if he had ever found you. His death at my hands ended the unrest in my family, but it also tore it apart. My other sons insisted on my banishment. I wandered the world like a ghost. In time I made new sons. Of these children, my favorite, my sweet brave boy, was Diego de la Vega. He loved me, he tried to make me be better, he helped me recover from my grief, however little I might have deserved it. Do you understand now, perhaps, why I might wish to avenge him?”</p><p>Nile is quiet. She can’t help a sting of guilt, as if this is her fault – that Chlothar went insane over the idea of Nicolò possessing the Ring of Solomon, even when that is exactly what Nicolò never actually did. If Fredegund can be trusted, she killed Chlothar to protect Nicky and Nile, which is a horrible way to show love no matter how you cut it, but might mean that she isn’t completely indifferent to her wayward son, her dark little secret, who drove his brothers mad with fear he might overthrow them one day as revenge for his abandonment. The irony, of course, is that none of this is like Nicky at all. He isn’t a ruthless warlord, he isn’t obsessed with family honor, he doesn’t think that blood and terror and steely discipline are the way to raise a child or treat his inferiors – he has always cared, he has always helped, always been so deeply kind, put others first. It was secrets and lies and ignorance that whipped his vampire relations into a froth, because Fredegund kept them apart and never told any of them the truth. This is still her fault.</p><p>“I’m sorry for your losses,” Nile says, because that much is true. “But you should have come back for Nicolò. You made him. He was your child. Your responsibility.”</p><p>Fredegund smiles, raw and faintly. “And do you think,” she enquires, “that life would have been the best for him? Trapped in a hive of jealous, seething brothers, all of them bent on proving their worth by pain and power and violence? I knew what his soul was made of when I tasted his blood. Tell me, my dear, do you think Nicolò di Genova would have liked that life?”</p><p>The answer, rather obviously, is no, he wouldn’t have, it would have shattered everything good and kind and true that Nicky is, but Nile refuses to give Fredegund the satisfaction of saying so. The woman isn’t entirely unaware how terrible her first batch of sons evidently were, but since they exiled her for killing their eldest brother, perhaps Fredegund isn’t inclined to look favorably on them either. Nile also wants to say that this is what Fredegund gets for siring a lot of toxic-masculinity total dicks, but holds back. To say the least, she is aware of the pain it causes someone to wander the world, unable to go back home to their family, but Joe and Fredegund’s situations are not comparable. Joe’s family wasn’t a bunch of homicidal madmen with too many sharp teeth. Sa’id banished him without cause. This is not the same. Fredegund has said that all her sons are dead aside from Nicky, but does she really mean <em>all</em> of them? Is that why she risked making contact now, when there are no more suspicious brothers to plot and scheme at his demise? <em>Jesus. </em>This is <em>exactly </em>why Nile never wanted to touch supernatural politics.</p><p>“You know,” she says. “It sounds like all of this could have been avoided if you made daughters instead. Men aren’t worth it.”</p><p>That startles a reluctant laugh out of Fredegund, the first unguarded emotion she’s shown, and for a moment she looks more like a real woman and less like a beautiful, unfeeling statue. “I have reflected upon the peculiar difficulties of men, yes,” she says. “But sons were always more valued for a family when I was a mortal, and I have never entirely relinquished that belief. Yet we could turn over a new leaf. You are my granddaughter, after all. Perhaps you could help teach me how to take pride in daughters.”</p><p>Nile hates that for just a second, this does work on her. But she doesn’t need to instruct a however-many-centuries-old vampire about modern feminism and internalized misogyny, even as part of her is putting on its scholar hat and grabbing its lecture notes. “Tell me,” she says instead. “If Diego de la Vega hadn’t died, would you have ever found me? Found Nicolò? Or are you only here because you think we can help you with something else that you want?”</p><p>“I would have come,” Fredegund insists, which is obviously what she would say, and Nile doesn’t trust it. “I wanted Diego and Nicolò to meet, as they were the only sons of mine who I thought would share a kinship. As it is – ”</p><p>“You said Diego was sired in the nineteenth century. That’s plenty of time.”</p><p>“I could not find Nicolò.” Fredegund taps one polished finger on the tabletop. “Otherwise I would have arranged it. And if the others learned of it –”</p><p>“Did you look?”</p><p>“Of course I looked. But there was no trace in any of the magical records or repositories. I could not be sure if he was even still alive, or gone like the rest. Not until I found you here, a stone’s throw from where Diego vanished. That is fate, is it not?”</p><p>Nile glances away. It’s true that Fredegund would have found nothing in the usual supernatural archives, because of the fact that the three of them have been essentially cut off from it since the twelfth century. Fredegund clearly has no idea how to use ordinary search methods or modern technology, she wouldn’t know Nicolò’s new name or how to do so much as to type it into Facebook (and obviously, the entire point of “Nicholas Smith” is that there are millions of other men named that). Besides, they keep themselves well off the radar of human authorities or institutions, so they don’t raise any suspicions about who they are or why they’re living so long. Maybe Fredegund really <em>couldn’t </em>find Nicolò, even if she wanted to. Maybe. But still.</p><p>“Look,” Nile says. “I’m not totally unsympathetic to what you’ve gone through, but this… this is far too much for me to process. <em>Do</em> you think I’m in danger from whoever killed Diego? Or is that just a convenient excuse to get me to help you?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Fredegund looks at her forthrightly. “A vampire, your blood relation, is killed on the doorstep of your university, and <em>you </em>think you’re safe as an innocent lamb?”</p><p>Nile bites her lip. She doesn’t want to be proud and foolish, and she knows that precisely because she hasn’t had much to do with the supernatural world, she has to take care not to underestimate it. It <em>is </em>dangerous, that’s always been true. But team up with her estranged grandmother to kick off a two-vampire private-detective manhunt, when Fredegund has been very frank about wanting to brutally murder the perpetrator in return? Behind Joe and Nicky’s back? <em>No way.</em></p><p>“I have to tell my father about this,” Nile says. “There’s no way I’m just – ”</p><p>“Not yet.” Fredegund shakes her head firmly. “I am afraid I have to command that you cannot say anything about me to anyone, even my son, until I know more about what is going on here.”</p><p>There’s an undeniable thrum of mesmer underlying her words, and Nile can feel it locking around her tongue like an iron cage – a sudden and horrible awareness that indeed, she <em>can’t </em>say anything, she can try all she wants, but will be physically prevented. She instinctively resists, trying to shake it off, as Fredegund tightens her grip. “You remember what I said about me being stronger than you, dear? Don’t fight it. It’s for the best. All will be revealed in time.”</p><p>“You – ” Nile grits out, eyes watering. “Never mind, you’re still the worst. Why do you even think that I’d be able to do anything, <em>have </em>anything, to help you in this – ”</p><p>“Oh.” Fredegund looks at her, chillingly matter-of-fact. “I think you and I both know you do.”</p><p>***</p><p>Joe and Nicky aren’t <em>mad, </em>not exactly, though it would be fine if they were. No long-term relationship ever passes with you holding your partner’s hand dreamily at all times and skipping through the daisies in perfect union. You bicker, you squabble, you argue, you outright fight, because you’re different people and you think different things, and that’s healthy and natural, as long as you respect each other and work through it in a constructive way and always come out stronger on the other side. They haven’t fought much, because they often <em>do </em>agree on most things, but there have been a few spectacular blow-outs. They love each other far too much to stay angry for long, but theirs is a marriage like any other, and it happens. Hence as the door shuts behind them in the hotel room, Nicky can tell that Joe is tense and angry, and not just from the encounter with Stephen Merrick or the drunk-girl drive-by hitting-upon. He’s a little peeved himself. Finally, Nicky says pointedly, “Do you want to sit down?”</p><p>Joe hesitates, then moves to the bed and sits, his fingers knotted between his knees. Nicky sits down next to him, and they stare at the wall. They both hate fighting, especially when they’re not even sure what it’s about. Finally Nicky says, “So Nile’s thesis – ”</p><p>“It’s about the Seal of Solomon, yeah.” Joe shifts restlessly, a faint flurry of sparks rising off him, and briefly producing the scent of singed polyester from the counterpane. “We were talking about it last night. She’s been studying all the theory, the texts about it, learning everything that she can, apparently. But that doesn’t mean she wants to find the Ring again.”</p><p>He sounds half as if he’s trying to convince himself, and that maybe he <em>does </em>want to. Nicky feels unpleasantly taken off guard, hit by a threat he didn’t know how to prepare for, or even that it existed. “And she just decided not to tell us that?”</p><p>“She had explanations. Justifications.” The pace of Joe’s fingers tapping on his knee increases, until Nicky wants to grab him and make him sit still. Djinni restlessness stands in contrast to vampire calmness, one of the many between them, the way opposites attract and complement each other. “I think she didn’t trust that we wouldn’t interfere, or that you wouldn’t hurry to London and breathe down her neck.”</p><p>“I don’t breathe down her neck.” Nicky can’t help it, he’s rankled. “I’ve never done that for as long as she’s been my daughter. And what exactly is there to <em>interfere </em>about?”</p><p>Joe pauses. Then he says, a little too deliberately offhand, “I think both of us have started to wonder if giving up the Ring was the right idea.”</p><p>“You’re the djinn!” Nicky stares at his husband, shocked. He never thought he would hear those words from Joe, and it makes him feel even more blindsided. “Its power is built on the enslavement and destruction of your entire race! Nile never wanted to be a tyrant like that, <em>we </em>never wanted it for her! That was over nine hundred years ago, and – ”</p><p>“Exactly!” Joe stands up with a jerk, whirling to face Nicky with an expression more upset than angry, which makes him long to take Joe into his arms and kiss away the thorn in his heart, but he can’t, not yet. “It’s been <em>nine hundred years! </em>We’ve tried everything we can think of, we’ve done everything the right way, we’ve been good and honorable people – I’m not sorry for that, but still. We’ve exhausted every other avenue, and I’m still banished. I’m still cut off from my homeland, my family, my entire – Nicky, you know I love you, I love Nile, I love our life together. This isn’t about that. But if we had to use the Ring of Sulaiman once, just <em>once, </em>to end my exile, to overturn Sa’id – ”</p><p>He cuts off, clearly angry with himself for suggesting it, when he has maintained all along that he did not want to be selfish and use the Ring only for his personal benefit. Joe has suffered the consequences of that decision for, as he says, nine hundred years. Nobody can doubt his sincerity. Nicky knows there is a hole in his heart where his old life used to be, and he hates Sa’id deeply for tearing it away. Joe should not be expected to smile and forget the beauties of magical Cairo, his mother, his brothers, his culture, his faith, the sheer and simple relief of being among other jinn, of feeling magic run freely in his veins, of taking to the skies without fear of being caught. Doesn’t Joe <em>deserve</em> to return, a reward for all his patient endurance? That is usually the deal in all the stories. Prove your worth by trial rather than taking the easy way, and so win your prize. But he’s right. That hasn’t worked. There’s no way to say if it ever will.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Nicolò says hoarsely. “Yusuf, I’m sorry. You know that I wish every day I could get you back home, and – ”</p><p>“I know you do.” Joe pulls at his dark curls, starting to pace. “So if you could, if <em>we </em>could, isn’t that worth considering? Do you know, when we saw that ring today in the British Museum, that was the closest I’ve been to anything djinni-related in – I don’t even know how long? I swear, I was about to smash the glass and steal the stupid thing out. It just made me so angry, that even that cultural charnel house got to have more of my heritage than I do. I can’t take this any more, Nicolò. I want to go home. I want to know if my mother is alive or dead. I want to bathe in fire and soar across the stars and feel like myself again. I want my family to meet Nile as my daughter, and you as my mate. I want…”</p><p>He trails off, and Nicky gets up. He’s not sure if Joe will allow him to touch him, but he puts both hands on his shoulders. Then when Joe doesn’t resist, he wraps both arms around him, pulling Joe against his chest and resting his chin on Joe’s head. All their old principled arguments about not using the Ring seem actively pointless against watching the love of his life suffer like this. “I’m sorry,” Nicky murmurs again, kissing the side of Joe’s head, the pointed ear disguised with glamour so the humans don’t notice. “Maybe we should ask Nile.”</p><p>“I don’t want her to do it just because of me.” Joe’s voice is distant, heavy. “Then I want nothing else more than to beg her to do it. And I don’t know what to do about that. It terrifies me.”</p><p>“Shh.” Nicky tightens his grip, and they sway on the spot, holding each other fiercely. “We’ll think of something, all right? Of course we will. Once Nile has graduated, she’ll have a little free time on her hands, and she could probably use a vacation. Maybe if we – ”</p><p>“If we what? Just happened to suggest that we visit Kyrgyzstan?” Joe utters a humorless laugh. “I think she’d see through that pretty quickly, don’t you? Maybe we’d prove, in her mind, that she was right not to tell us in the first place. If we spiraled down this rabbit hole and – ”</p><p>“Shh,” Nicky says again, more firmly. Joe has that tendency to spiral himself, to rush from one thought to another, and while it makes him very clever, it also causes him this kind of pain which hasn’t even really happened yet. “Take a breath, my heart.”</p><p>Joe pauses, then takes a rattling breath, even as his hands tighten convulsively in Nicky’s shirt. They teeter back to the bed and sit down. Joe leans against Nicky’s chest with a look of bone-deep misery, the kind that Nicky knows he feels on these kinds of nights, when all the joy of their existence otherwise is not enough to paper over the old and mortal wound. Finally he murmurs, “You know that I’m not angry at you, Nicolò. Yes?”</p><p>“Of course I know that.” Nicky hums comfortingly. “But you’re allowed to be angry. And you’re right that we’ve tried everything we can think of. Maybe if we did use the Ring to get you home, and then Nile gave it up again straight after – ”</p><p>“Would she go on like that? Pulling it out of storage whenever we hit a vexing magical problem, then hastily stuffing it away again?” Joe slaps the quilt, clearly an unsatisfactory proxy for everything else that he would like to hit. “I don’t think that really counts as giving it up. Besides, look at the human world. It’s a mess. Everything we’ve tried to do, everything we’ve spent these centuries trying to help with – did any of it matter at all? Or did it just make it worse?”</p><p>Nicky starts to answer, then stops. He doesn’t know what to say, when he wonders that exact same thing more often than he likes to admit. “We can’t control the humans. You know that.”</p><p>“Of course I do. But why are we even trying?” Joe leans his head against Nicky’s neck, his eyes blurry with exhaustion and deprivation and pain. “I don’t necessarily want to stop. I don’t think that’s better. But I don’t… I don’t know, Nicolò. I just don’t know.”</p><p>Rather than answer, Nicky kisses him. He can’t deny that he feels the same weariness, the same impossible burden that immortal shoulders bear, the way he also looks at what’s happening among the humans and wants to just go away and take a nap for fifty goddamn years until they sort it out. His little family is plenty privileged, not least in their own unending life, but that doesn’t mean they don’t feel the weight. If anything, they feel it more, accumulated from countless lifetimes of watching humans do what humans do, with no apparent capacity to learn from their mistakes or honestly study their history. It goes in bloody cycles, and Joe and Nicky have always maintained that they cannot put their hand too heavily on the scales just because they are so much stronger. Until they lost Quynh (and then as a result, Andy), that was their shared philosophy. But the humans took Quynh too, and Andy has been fraying at the seams ever since. She’s too old, perhaps. Seen too much. Nicky thinks that they should try to find her again. They haven’t spoken properly since 1914, in Sarajevo, right before the archduke Franz Ferdinand was scheduled to visit. And everyone knows how <em>that </em>went.</p><p>There’s an interlude of silence as they kiss, as their hands and mouths find each other in the darkness, as Nicky does his best to take Joe’s pain into himself and make it go away, as he always does. Joe has been careful about using his magic, because he can’t be assured that it will last forever or that it will come back if he overexerts it, and the technological advances of modernity have had a baneful influence on the old powers. Creatures’ abilities have been slowly and steadily declining for centuries; the world is run by science now, not magic. But when science is on its way out in favor of magical <em>thinking, </em>which is not an improvement, it leaves them in an unsatisfying quandary. Maybe that’s why modern humans love magical stories so much. They want to imagine that there’s still a chance they could open a door and wander into another world, far away from the crushing lack of mystery in this one, the grinding wheels of the machine. It seems like everything might be easier there. Happier. Real.</p><p>After another moment, Joe pulls back. Despite their hearty interval of making out, it’s clear that he doesn’t feel entirely refreshed or released, and he traces a finger across Nicky’s cheek. “Nicolò, I would like to go out for a while. Take a walk, or – something. I need to work this off before I can sleep, and I do not want to bring this into our bed. I’ll be back later.”</p><p>Nicky pauses, then nods. “Okay.” That seems to state clearly that on this particular excursion, Joe would prefer to be alone, and likewise, they’ve always been good about respecting the other’s boundaries and giving personal space. They are almost always together, but that doesn’t mean that they have completely elided all sense of their own selves. Nicky scoots backward, allowing Joe to climb off his lap. “How long do you think you’ll be out?”</p><p>“I don’t know, a few hours.” Joe kisses him, clearly as an apology for giving into that djinni tendency to blow off on the wind when under stress. Nicky knows that he’s been fraying for a while, but this revelation with Nile’s thesis and the return of the shadow of the Ring of Solomon seems to have acted as the trigger to set him off. “I’ll text if I think it’ll be any longer. You don’t have to stay here, if you wanted to skulk around London like a proper vampire, but – ”</p><p>“I’m all right.” Nicky is a boring old married man who has no need to seek out a vampire’s usual nocturnal attractions in a big city, and he wants to be here whenever Joe gets back. “I might do some research, though.”</p><p>He goes to get his laptop, not sure exactly what he’s looking for (schematics for how to break into the British Museum and steal a djinni ring?) as Joe grabs his phone, slips it into his pocket, and stops to kiss Nicky one more time. Then he leaves the room, the door shutting behind him, and Nicky listens to his footsteps heading down the hall to the stairs, until they finally fade from even a vampire’s hearing. He goes to the window, and sees Joe emerge into the street and set off. It’s almost ten o’clock at night and still largely light out.</p><p>Nicky sits down, opens his computer, and finds himself performing a precautionary Google on Dr. Meta Kozak. Nile’s supervisor seems nice enough, and so far as Nicky can tell, she’s completely human, but something about that encounter at the reception is sticking with him. He finds her faculty page in the KCL Department of History, and opens it up to see the standard headshot, biography, taught courses, and list of publications. Her undergraduate degree is from Babeș-Bolyai University in Cluj, Romania, and her doctorate is from Charles University in Prague. She specializes in medieval and early modern manuscripts on the history of the occult, the historiography and transmission of Renaissance texts on ritual magic, visual and semiotic culture in medieval symbology (Nicky can feel his eyes glazing over, but valiantly perseveres) and has published a few articles on alchemy. She has the usual list of grants from prestigious funding bodies, awards for excellence in teaching, and judging by the dates of her degrees, is just over forty years old. There’s nothing to say that she isn’t exactly what she looks like, and Nile might be pissed if she found out that her dad was vetting her teachers as if she was in first grade. Not that Nicky was Nile’s dad when she was first-grade-aged (which likewise did not exist in medieval Ethiopia), but you know.</p><p>Nicky stares at the screen until he can feel his eyes crossing. He shakes his head, closes out of it, then goes back to Google and types in “stephen merrick pharmaceuticals.”</p><p>This leads him to a glitzy corporate website, press releases about some new anti-aging wonder drug called Æternatis (complete with pretentious ash diphthong), pictures of Merrick giving keynote speeches at conferences in New York and Tokyo, and a section headlined “Debunking the Myths.” When Nicky clicks on it, this proves to be a long entry which, going by its self-serious tone and determination to use big words, was probably written by some PR intern on their first day at the company. It wants to tell Nicky why all the bad press about Big Pharma is completely unwarranted, how giants like Pfizer and Gilead and Johnson &amp; Johnson, along with of course Merrick Pharmaceuticals itself, are an unqualified good thing for the world, bringing scientific development and treatment and life-saving medicine to the masses, and only medieval philistines want to stand in the way of that progress. (As a medieval philistine, Nicky wonders if he should be offended on his own behalf.) It proudly enumerates a long list of philanthropic awards that Merrick has received for its efforts to help starving kids in Africa vel sim., and links to various fawning pieces from industry publications. It all looks so… good.</p><p>Once more, Nicky thinks that he’s missed something, but he is obviously aware that they would not put it on their own goddamn website, and shakes his head in disgust, closing the browser window. It’s almost eleven PM, it’s finally (mostly) dark, and he wonders if he should text Nile, but he does not want to confirm all her worst suspicions by helicopter-parenting. He does glance at his phone in case he’s missed a message from Joe, but he hasn’t. He gets up and is about to change for bed, though he won’t actually sleep until his mate is back, when – to his great surprise and not inconsiderable disquiet – the room phone rings.</p><p>Nicky eyes it warily, since it’s not as if they told anyone aside from Nile that they were coming to town or where they were staying, and things have been just weird enough that some particularly paranoid part of him interprets it as a bad omen. After he reminds himself sternly that it’s not the Met calling to say that Joe has been in a sudden and terrible accident, he picks up. “Hello?”</p><p>“Mr. Smith?” It’s the properly British-accented voice of the front desk concierge. “I’m so very sorry to disturb you at this late hour. Have I woken you?”</p><p>“No.” Nicky has gradually adopted a more human-like schedule over the centuries, but he’s still rarely asleep at eleven o’clock at night. “What is this about?”</p><p>“Well.” Reginald (he just seems like his name is probably Reginald) sounds apologetic. “It’s just, there’s a visitor in the lobby who would like to see you. Quite insistent about requesting that I phone you. I am happy to pass on the message that you are not available, sir, but – ”</p><p><em>A visitor? </em>Nicky has no clue who this can be, and he’s tempted to just ignore it, but some ancient hunting instinct – whether he is the hunter or the hunted, he isn’t sure – tells him not to. “I’ll be down in a moment,” he says, before he can change his mind. “Thank you.”</p><p>With that, he hangs up before Reginald can get another word in, peers in the mirror to make sure he does not look too disheveled (vampires <em>do </em>have reflections, it’s just that old-time looking glasses backed with silver didn’t show them), runs his fingers through his hair, and shrugs on his jacket. He wants to look commanding, magisterial, a mature man of stature and power, which can be difficult since he was thirty years old when he was made into a vampire and looks younger than most people he has to deal with. He’s glad that he still has the beard, though it itches like the devil and he is looking forward to being rid of it. (Joe, alas, will have to remain the bearded one out of the two of them.) He grabs his room key and his phone, steps out into the plush hallway, and takes the lift rather than the stairs. It’s about the appearances.</p><p>The lift dings and opens on the ground floor, and Nicky steps out, glancing around carefully. Someone is standing with their back to him, in front of the reception desk, cast in shadows from the ornate chandelier. It’s a man who seems, for a confused instant, strangely familiar, though Nicky can’t tell from where. Then he turns around.</p><p>“Good evening, Mr. Smith,” he says, holding out a hand. He’s tall, blond, and scruffy, wearing a black jacket and battered jeans that seem slightly too casual for the upmarket surroundings, and has the look of an ex-soldier. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”</p><p>“I’m sorry?” Nicky stares at him, still lost. “Do we know each other?”</p><p>The man jerks his head, drawing them off into a gilded alcove. Then he says, “We know <em>of </em>each other, though that was a very long time ago. My name is Sebastien le Livre, but you may remember me better as B – ”</p><p>“Wait.” A memory from almost a thousand years ago – well, nine hundred and fourteen, if you want to be pedantic – is taking dim and dusty shape in Nicky’s mind. He only <em>saw </em>the man once, and very briefly, in the shadows of a breaking morning in Jerusalem, investigating Diyab the brass merchant’s exsanguinated corpse. But how in the absolute <em>hellfire – </em>? The Frenchman was decidedly mortal, at least back then. The fact that he’s standing <em>here –</em></p><p>“Booker,” Nicky says, the word coming out before he can make any sense of what it means. “That is you? The same one from Jerusalem? <em>Centuries </em>ago?”</p><p>Booker makes a small, rueful gesture of acknowledgment. “You have a good memory,” he says, “though I suppose that’s to be expected from a vampire. Unfortunately, yes. It is me.”</p><p>“What the hell are you doing here?” Nicky decides to save the questions about Booker’s newfound longevity for later, as they aren’t really his business anyway. “How did you find me?”</p><p>Booker, as Nicky had a feeling he was going to do, avoids answering that. Instead he says, “Is there somewhere we could talk? Privately.”</p><p>Nicky has no intention of inviting this man to his room for any number of reasons, and he’s tempted to order him flatly to be on his way, but yet again, something stops him. He and the Frenchman eye each other up and down. Then Nicky says, voice clipped, “Fine. This way.”</p><p>Booker decorously avoids asking what exactly he’ll be drinking, and they make their way into the hotel bar, which is filled with the usual sorts who hang out in a hotel bar close to midnight: mostly lonely business travelers hoping to get laid, by the looks of things. They sit down at a lowlit blue table, regarding each other with intense suspicion, until the tension is stretched almost to breaking point. Then Booker reaches into his breast pocket and removes his wallet. He opens it, and Nicky spots a Saudia airline receipt and a sheaf of brightly colored riyals, which seems to strongly suggest that he has just flown in from Riyadh. Booker pulls out a piece of folded parchment, thick and creamy and strangely old-fashioned, but doesn’t move to hand it over. Instead he says, “I’ve been sent to ask if you would like to make a deal.”</p><p>“A deal?” Nicky seems to recall that this was something Booker offered last time they all met, which was to Nile, back in Jerusalem. He is even more on his guard. “With who?”</p><p>“My boss.” Booker hesitates a final instant, then hands the parchment over, and Nicky’s entire body has turned nerveless even before he fumbles it open and sees glittering golden Arabic script. “King Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab would like to have a word.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Joe has walked for almost twenty minutes before he has any idea where he’s going, or indeed, if he is going anywhere at all. The light is blue and gold and streaky, the sun set but the sky still retaining a faint robin’s-egg glow, the air warm and somnolent and the glittering lights of the city almost enough to provide some semblance of magic. He moves faster than the average human, and his shoes sometimes strike sparks on the concrete, but everyone is engaged in their own enjoyment of the summer night and paying no attention to him. He blends anonymously among the thinning crowds, passing knots of drunken revelers, night-shift workers eager to get home, a few vagrants asking for change, and students from London’s multitude of universities, most of them also shit-faced. When people do spot Joe, they sometimes take a few steps back, or take the wide way around to avoid walking directly past him. Those aren’t related to the sparks or the speed or anything else. When Joe is with Nicky and Nile, he is in company, safe, neutered and domestic. Now he’s a visibly Muslim guy out alone late at night, with a slightly wild look in his eye, and they think he might whip out a carving knife and start shouting <em>Allahu Akbar </em>or something. It stings, but dully. No worse than everything else that already hurts.</p><p>Joe wonders if he should try to smile or that would be more creepy, reminds himself that the usual big-city etiquette applies in re: ignoring everybody who isn’t you, and besides, he can’t summon up the patience to coddle humans through their prejudices one more time. It’s something he’s had to get used to again, especially after 9/11 – this particular brand of silent, side-eyeing discrimination, the wariness to get too close in case he charges. It was especially noticeable when they went to America ten years ago. If it wasn’t people looking at them funny for holding hands, it was the usual cracks from white people about how they’re glad he’s not a terrorist. Nile was participating in a global leadership forum at the University of Chicago during Barack Obama’s first presidential campaign, Joe and Nicky decided to tag along, and with all the invitations to after-event drinks and boozy dinners, Nile finally mentioned to someone that her dad was a Muslim, but they’d be happy to attend if there were non-alcoholic options. Then they just stopped cold. Joe’s pretty sure that as a <em>gay </em>Muslim, he would be shot on sight in Texas. He’s never tried to find out.</p><p><em>What are you doing, you idiot? You should go back and get into bed with your husband. </em>Yet even as much as he loves Nicky and he’s glad that they worked through the momentary rough patch from earlier, Joe is driven to keep going, to run, to see if he could take off and soar above the rooftops of London like a depressed djinni Mary Poppins. Yeah, he might collide with some private jet coming into LCA, and then he’d definitely cause an incident, but it might be worth it just for that. He can maneuver, right? If he <em>lets </em>it hit him, he’s the idiot.</p><p>Joe walks even faster, shimmers of heat swirling around him, his entire body sore with the need to push off and fly. He wonders suddenly if he could still do it – it’s been almost a century since he even tried – or if the muscle memory has withered away like any long-unused skill. He knows that he’s verging on the edge of recklessness, and he tries to rein himself in. He has been triggered ever since the thesis reveal, and he doesn’t want to act like this is Nile’s fault or put the guilt on her. Hence why he was obliged to tell Nicky in somewhat messy fashion at the reception. But what choice does he have? It’s not like some minion of Sa’id is going to suddenly pop up with a golden ticket to end his exile. He just has to suck it up, again.</p><p>Joe runs in long, bounding swoops like a man on the moon, catches enough air to soar directly over the heads of a group of students (they applaud and seem to think that he’s a busker, and one of them generously tosses him a whole fifty pence) and works up a good head of steam on his way north, into Highbury and Islington. He passes Emirates Stadium, then a few minutes after that, turns onto St. Thomas’s Road and realizes where, exactly, he appears to be going.</p><p>Finsbury Park Mosque in north London was, once upon a time in the early 2000s, associated with al-Qaeda and served as the home of a makeshift terrorist school. After Abu Hamza, its extremist imam, was arrested, the mosque embarked upon a concerted effort to remake its image, improve its community outreach, and engage in education and interfaith efforts – in all of which it succeeded very well. But it still suffered a terrorist incident last summer, 2017, after the Westminster Bridge, Manchester Arena, and London Bridge attacks earlier in the year, in which a worshiper was killed and others were injured by some EDL fanatic with a van. Joe stands there outside the modest fence, looking at it. It’s slightly too late for isha prayer, which in June in England takes place about quarter to ten PM, but not so late that everyone will be gone. Ramadan ended two weeks ago, and while Joe’s level of observance has varied over the years – sometimes he takes comfort in it, sometimes it feels like just another reminder of how utterly he is cut off from his people – he finds himself wanting to go in. He takes one step, then another. Pushes the gate open, and goes up the walk.</p><p>The front door is unlocked, and he steps into the foyer, glancing at the usual community notice board and listings for events and invitations to youth group and Qur’an study that can be found in any house of worship. It’s quiet and smells like carpet cleaner, instant coffee, and the hint of warm and spicy food. The fluorescent lights buzz quietly. Joe has been in some of the most splendid mortal and magical mosques in the world, and this is far more boring in comparison. But for some reason, the plainness and simplicity and ordinary nature of it does not discomfit him. He takes a deep breath and discovers for some inexplicable reason, he’s halfway to tears.</p><p>He bends down, removes his shoes, and enters the workmanlike white-walled prayer hall. The distant drone of a vacuum in some other room suggests someone’s tidying up before they leave for the night, and Joe wonders if he has time to make a few rakats before they come in and catch him. He’s not a trespasser, exactly, but he’s not a regular and he’s never been seen here before. He doesn’t want to alarm anyone, but he – he just needs this somehow. Allah, if He has bestirred Himself at all to take continued note of Yusuf al-Kaysani, surely must understand.</p><p>Joe picks a rug and settles down to perform an only-somewhat-late version of isha, which is another muscle memory vaguely rusty from disuse. He does, he prays, but he has had trouble feeling very charitable toward the Almighty recently, even before all this happened, and it hasn’t seemed honest to act like he does. A memory of his old neighborhood mosque in Cairo comes to mind: the transcendent light, the blue walls, the magical fire, the fountain of golden sand. How he took it for granted the last time he was there on his mother’s orders, for asr. He would give anything in the world, anything at all, to open his eyes and find himself there now.</p><p>Joe can taste the tears rising up his throat, and swallows ferociously. If he breaks down now, in an empty mosque late at night, and scares the crap out of the custodian, it’ll be a whole thing, and he doesn’t want it to be. He manages to get through one rakat by sheer force of will, but then, as he is starting the second one, he just can’t hold it back. He gives up, presses his face into the rug, and starts to cry without making a sound. His tears hit the ground and hiss into steam.</p><p>He has had just enough time to wonder if the mosque has ever seen another worshiper like this, a thousand-year-old homesick djinn who wandered in out of the night and proceeded to have an emotional breakdown, and taken leave to decide that it almost certainly hasn’t, when there’s a sound at the door. Whoever’s cleaning has obviously heard someone moving around in the prayer hall, has to see if it’s someone who might cause trouble, and blinks in deep confusion and alarm to behold this sorry spectacle. “Brother, are you…?” he starts warily, in English – and then when Joe doesn’t respond, switches to Arabic. “Brother, are you all right?”</p><p>“I’m – ” Joe isn’t sure if he’s started to answer in English or Arabic or Daevic, and tries to pick one of the former. He straightens up, feeling more pathetic than ever. “I’m sorry. The door was still open, and I – I didn’t mean to, but I just – I didn’t – ”</p><p>The man – he looks like a conscientious community member doing his bit to help out after services – considers, then steps into the room. “My name is Jamal,” he says, clearly sensing an opportunity to offer aid to a suffering soul. “Can I help you at all?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Joe wipes his face roughly. “I’m sorry for coming so late. I’m sure I startled you.”</p><p>“It’s all right.” Jamal sits down next to him. He looks about Joe’s own physical mid-thirties age, maybe a little older. He wears a beard and woven skullcap, an Arsenal jersey and blue jeans, a wedding ring and wristwatch. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”</p><p>“I live in Malta. I’m visiting London.” Joe sits back on his heels. “I’m here to see my daughter graduate from KCL.”</p><p>Jamal nods, agrees that this is an excellent reason to be in town, and congratulates Joe on his daughter’s behalf. They sit in silence, looking at the empty room. Joe sometimes attends prayers at home in Gżira, and he has a few friends at the mosque there, but even they don’t know who he really is. A lunatic urge to tell Jamal the truth crosses his mind, if he’s going to leave here and never be seen again and let the other man think that it was a strange late-night encounter of the sort that is never pulled out in the light of day. At last he says, realizing that he hasn’t done so yet, “My name is Yusuf.”</p><p>“Welcome, Yusuf.” Jamal looks at him with warm sincerity. “I’m glad I could meet you tonight.”</p><p>He sounds like he means it, and despite the cold encrustation of suspicion and cynicism that has grown over Joe’s opinion of humans like scar tissue – he doesn’t let it affect his actions in any way, but it lingers in his head more than he likes – it makes his old heart hurt. He can get himself twisted into knots over the idiocy and bloodthirst and petty vengeance of humans, and then they go and do things like this, they welcome in an upset stranger just because they’re in pain and need somewhere to rest for a little while, and Joe doesn’t know what to say, or if he can even speak. He looks down at the rug, worn smooth by countless knees of worshipers before him, and for a painful, lovely instant, he feels some connection to his lost home. He has long since gotten used to humans, doesn’t expect that every one might try to enslave him when his back is turned, but it’s still not a totally natural instinct to relax in their presence. Yet he and Jamal sit there together, and Joe doesn’t fear anything, and it’s poignant, and real, and true.</p><p>At last, Joe harrumphs and gets to his feet. “Thank you for keeping me company, Brother Jamal,” he says. “I needed that. But I won’t delay you from returning home now. I’ll be on my way.”</p><p>Jamal clasps his hand and tells him to return whenever he likes if he finds himself in London again, and Joe leaves the mosque and lets himself out into the night. It’s four miles north from Bloomsbury to Finsbury Park, and it’s late enough that Joe debates just catching the Piccadilly line to Holborn. He should hurry if so. It’ll run until a quarter past midnight, but it’s close to that now. But even if he did decide to walk, he can make decent speed. Better if he flew.</p><p>Joe rocks on his heels, considering it. Then he wonders if he should notify Nicky of his itinerary. This is still within his original timeframe, since it was close to ten when he left, it’s only been two and a half hours, and he knows his husband well enough to guess that Nicky is waiting up for him to return. Not as if this is any great burden to a vampire; he could also have lost track of time and be working away on whatever he intended to research. But when Joe does pull out his phone, it is to find three missed calls and eight texts from Nicky, all containing some increasingly strident theme on <em>WHERE ARE YOU? COME BACK RIGHT NOW.</em></p><p>With that, Joe panics. Nicky wouldn’t have interrupted his soul-searching, solitary peregrinations of angst unless it was deadly urgent, and since the last text is from twenty-seven minutes ago, Joe immediately leaps to the horrible possibility that Nicky was somehow not around to send another one. To hell with whatever enterprising Londoner might be hanging out a window with a camera phone and a burning desire to discover the truth about aliens. Joe taps out a frantic response that he’s on his way, then takes a running start, prays all over again that he doesn’t crash on the concrete and utterly embarrass himself, and vaults up into midair.</p><p>Momentum carries him clumsily aloft in the first instance, zigging and zagging like a demented bumblebee, as he clips the top of a streetlamp and almost breaks off an excessively fussy plaster cornice atop a handsome Edwardian window. Before he can do any more airborne damage to London’s architecture, Joe kicks frantically and manages to achieve an altitude more compatible with not causing accidents. The night air rushes past him in a heady blur, rich with the scents of river murk, car exhaust, takeaway food, the trees of Highbury Fields, the drifting odors of booze and flop sweat from whoever’s still staggering along the sidewalks with their mates, cement and concrete and rain, the damp underside of the clouds. The <em>clouds. </em>Joe is almost high enough to touch them on his own, no intermediary and no airplane, for the first time in God knows how long. A spear of savage delight punches through him, and he has to keep his mind on task. This is no time to lose his head and soar off into the night, no matter how sore the temptation.</p><p>The endless lights of London smear out on the dark tapestry of the world below him, he has to duck down low enough to check where he is – he doesn’t know the city well enough to navigate by sight – and finally spots the square grey colossus of the British Museum. Nobly resisting the urge to land on the roof, jimmy open a service door, and steal the djinni ring (and maybe the Rosetta Stone, which <em>belongs </em>to Egypt, thank you <em>very </em>much, but they’d definitely notice that), Joe swoops low, lands on the sidewalk just as a confused midnight dog walker stares at him and decides not to ask, and rushes around the corner to the hotel. He half-expects to find a sea of flashing police lights outside, though there are plenty of supernatural fracases to which the human authorities would never so much as turn a hair. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved that everything looks normal, and barges inside. “Nicky? Nicolò!”</p><p>Before he can flip out any further, he spots Nicky, hurrying toward him from the hotel bar. Joe seizes him by the arms. “Habibi, habib albi, are you – what’s wrong, I thought – ”</p><p>“I’m all right.” Nicky looks paler than usual, however, and faintly stunned. “Look,” he says, putting a hand on Joe’s shoulder and leading him to one side. “There’s someone here who wants to see you – wants to see us. It’s going to be a bit of – do you remember Sebastien le Livre?”</p><p>“Sebas – ” It takes a moment, and then it clicks. Joe stares at Nicky in total shock. <em>“Booker? </em>The Frenchman from Jerusalem? Why isn’t he dead?”</p><p>“I don’t know, but that might be explained by the reason he’s here.” Nicky’s grip tightens, as if he thinks Joe might be about to fall over in shock. “I don’t know anything else about this just yet,” he cautions. “I refused to listen any more until you were here to hear it with me. He says – he claims, at any rate – that he’s been sent here on behalf of his boss. <em>King </em>Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab.”</p><p>Something like an explosion goes off in Joe’s chest. He doesn’t know if he’s totally shocked or if he sensed it somehow, a kind of precognition, the only fitting end to this evening. Nonetheless, it takes him a full ten seconds to muster up an answer, and his voice sounds croaky and wrong. “And what, exactly, does <em>King </em>Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab want with us this time?”</p><p>“Like I said, I didn’t ask. According to Booker, he wants to talk with us.” Nicky is still looking at Joe worriedly. “Mio cuore, are you all right?”</p><p>“And we trust Booker, do we?” Joe can feel centuries of accumulated frustration burning up, about to burst like a cork out of a bottle, and he doesn’t want to shout at Nicky, so Booker is the next best option. “Isn’t it because of him that we were all prisoners in Sa’id’s palace in the first place, served up like a Christmas goose? Now he winds up being immortal too, and he’s still running Sa’id’s errands? Whatever he wants, we should just tell him to shove it up his – ”</p><p>“I can tell him to go,” Nicky says, waving on a night clerk who looks inclined to be concerned. “You don’t even have to see him. You can stay right here and I’ll tell him to get lost and never contact us again. Is that what you want?”</p><p><em>Fuck</em>. Joe wants nothing more than the satisfaction of telling Sa’id to take a long walk off a short pier once and for all – hasn’t the man taken <em>enough </em>from them? – but he hates the sure and certain knowledge that if he shuts this off without a backward glance, he will spend the next thousand years wondering if that was it. He grinds his teeth, wonders if even he will need a drink to get through this, silently curses Sa’id, all his ancestors, any descendants he might have added, the rest of the Banu Maḏhab, and most of all, himself, still running back the instant Sa’id snaps his fingers, because nothing else has worked and he is at the end of his rope. “Fine,” Joe growls at last. “But if Booker tries anything, I’m killing him.”</p><p>Nicky gives him a slightly severe look, as if to remind him that he is otherwise in total accord with his sentiments but does not support shooting the messenger, at least not where the humans can see it. “One thing at a time,” he says, taking Joe’s arm. “I’m here for you.”</p><p>Joe utters a mumpish grunt in response, but allows himself to be towed back into the bar. It’s very late by now, and they’re the only patrons left; the bartender on graveyard shift probably wishes that these morons would go have their conversation somewhere else, so he can shut up shop and run for the Night Tube home. As they come closer, a faint shock of recognition goes through Joe. He and Sebastien le Livre never met face-to-face, but somehow Joe is in no doubt that it’s him. He looks a little rougher and more weathered around the edges, but so don’t they all. There’s a long and nasty silence as the three immortals stare at each other. Then Booker clears his throat. “Thanks for agreeing to speak with me.”</p><p>“Let’s get it over with,” Joe snaps. “And you can tell Sa’id that the next time he wants to <em>speak </em>with me after exiling me for nine hundred years, he can come in fucking <em>person.</em>”</p><p>“I’ll pass that on.” Booker seems to be aware that he’s going to have to take a lot of flak, only some of which he actually deserves, and maintains a deferential tone and posture. If he’s one of Sa’id’s human dogsbodies, running around and cleaning up the various messes that his boss is too important to concern himself with, he probably gets this a lot. “He wanted to, he just – ”</p><p>“I’m sure he <em>wanted </em>to.” Seeing no other way out of this rather than through, Joe sits down on the nearest chair. Nicky, accurately reading the look on his face, steps over to the bar to quietly order him a drink. “Let me guess, he’s <em>so </em>sorry for what he did and hopes I’ll find it in my heart to forgive him <em>one more time </em>for being so – ”</p><p>Booker raises a hand, and unwillingly, Joe finds himself shutting up. If he does want to learn what’s going on here, he reminds himself, he will have to actually let the man explain, rather than lashing out with embittered (even if deeply deserved) sarcasm. Nicky returns with the drink, some cocktail, and Joe sips it. He doesn’t feel great about drinking alcohol right after returning from the mosque, but he can just chalk that up on Sa’id’s account too. Nicky sits next to him protectively, and both of them stare at Booker expectantly. Then Nicky says, “Well?”</p><p>“Sa’id does want to speak with you.” Booker looks as if he’s judging how many interruptions he will have to allow. “In case you don’t know, he’s been High King of the Jinn for a hundred and eighteen years. The Golden One died on New Year’s Day, 1900.”</p><p>Despite himself, Joe is jolted. This is the first scrap of news about his people that he has received in almost a millennium, and it – he doesn’t know what to think. <em>The Golden One is dead. </em>He never knew the High King in person. Like Zawba’ah the Cyclone, shut up in his throne room to terrify hapless descendants with noise and thunder but not really do much else, al-Maḏhab was too far removed from the mundane concerns of daily life to ever be seen around the palace without a huge occasion to justify it. That was why Sa’id handled the actual, physical business, served as the visible figurehead for his family’s dynasty, and now has taken his father’s place. Joe is bursting with questions. He has been starved of even a drop, and he’s suddenly standing next to a firehose. Trying to sound neutral, he says, “And?”</p><p>“That means that Sa’id has had the undisputed power to cancel Joe’s banishment for <em>over a hundred years,</em>” Nicky interjects angrily, before Booker can speak again. “Technically, he also had it before. And he’s only now remembering that we exist because he needs a favor?”</p><p>Since this was pretty much what he was going to say, Joe sips his drink and stares at Booker vindictively. Booker waits for any further reactions. Then he says, “I won’t lie. Sa’id is still very angry at all of you. By the way – ” he has the look of a man who knows he has no right to ask, but can’t help himself – “how’s Nile? Is she all right? She was a good kid. I always liked her.”</p><p>“You tell me something about my family, asshole,” Joe says, “and maybe I’ll think about telling you anything about Nile. Or maybe I won’t, because if Sa’id decides to do something to – ”</p><p>Sensing that this is not going well, Booker sighs deeply and signals the bartender for another drink of his own. Another awkward pause ensues. Then he says, “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about your family. I swear, I would tell you if I did.”</p><p>Joe eyes him mulishly, but something about Booker’s face makes him think, however grudgingly, that he’s telling the truth. Andy told them a little more about him, said that he wanted the Ring of Solomon to bring back his dead wife and sons, the reason he decided to work for Sa’id in the first place and try to bring the Ring to him. Of course it wouldn’t have succeeded, but this man does know something about missing a long-lost family, and it is out of unhappy awareness of that fact that Joe decides to grant him belief on this point, if nothing else. “All right,” he says. “So what about Sa’id? How is he <em>amusing </em>himself these days?”</p><p>“Sa’id and his sister, Princess Aelah, founded Al-Maḏhab Oil Company in the early 1920s,” Booker says. “Just as the petroleum industry was really taking off in Persia and the Gulf. You know.” He chuckles, without humor. “Black gold. Makes sense. Anyway, now they’re as rich as it’s physically possible to get, and they live the Middle Eastern oligarch lifestyle – superyachts in the Emirates, Saudi penthouses with half a dozen Bugatti Veyrons, renting out entire luxury hotels in Kuwait. There’s Al-Maḏhab Capital Partners, which does investments, and Al-Maḏhab Philanthropy, which does the charitable giving, and a bunch of other businesses in the portfolio. Modern jinn need capitalism too, I guess. The companies also work with human clients, usually big-time billionaire tycoons or sultans and sheikhs from the region who need someone as high-level as them to manage their shit, understand the cultural requirements, that sort of thing.” Booker shakes his head. “These people are <em>insanely </em>rich. And usually also insane.”</p><p>“Just think,” Nicky cracks weakly, glancing at Joe. “If you <em>had</em> married Sa’id instead of me, you could have a superyacht by now.”</p><p>Joe doesn’t think that’s very funny, but he can tell that Nicky is trying valiantly to ease the tension, and squeezes his knee in thanks. “I much prefer you to the superyachts,” he says. “So now that Sa’id is literally both High King <em>and</em> has more money than God, with anything that a being could ever want, why the <em>hell, </em>especially if he is still angry at us, would he want to <em>talk</em>? What on earth could he possibly need from us? And don’t say he doesn’t need something. I know he does. That’s the only reason he ever acts like he cares about me.”</p><p>Booker accepts his drink refill, waits until the bartender has retreated behind the counter to resume passive-aggressively glaring at them, and blows out a tired-sounding breath. “One of the companies that has received regular big investments from Al-Maḏhab Capital Partners,” he says, “is a British pharmaceutical manufacturer. They’ve had some big rollouts recently, you might have heard of them. Their CEO is some young-wunderkind who’s been grabbing headlines with his splashy new miracle drug, Æternatis. His name is – ”</p><p>“Is it,” Joe says, “by any chance, Stephen Merrick?”</p><p>“Yes.” Booker blinks. “So you have heard of him?”</p><p>There’s a pause. Joe and Nicky glance at each other. Finally Nicky says, low-voiced, “I was doing some looking into him earlier. Their website did mention a drug called that.”</p><p>“Looking into him?” It’s Booker’s turn to be confused. “Why?”</p><p>“Because,” Joe says, “we met him. Earlier tonight, at Nile’s – at a reception. He seemed a little slimy. But if he’s some kind of stooge for Sa’id – ”</p><p>“As far as I’m aware, I’m the only stooge for Sa’id here.” Booker’s mouth quirks wryly, and for a moment, Joe almost wishes he could like him. “Merrick and Sa’id might have met back when Merrick Pharmaceuticals was in negotiations for the first big check, but that’s as far as it goes. Actually – ” he puts his drink aside and leans forward, hands on his knees – “that’s why I’m here. Sa’id has started to think that there’s something suspicious about Merrick Pharmaceuticals, and he would like someone to look into it.”</p><p>“What?” Joe laughs. “This has to be the worst cover story I’ve ever heard. He can hire legions of private detectives or corporate investigators or anyone he wants, human <em>and </em>jinn, and he thinks that we’re the only men for the – ”</p><p>Booker raises a hand again, Joe closes his mouth, and they continue their fascinating project of eyeing each other balefully. Then Booker says, “That’s the thing. He <em>did </em>hire human investigators and sent them off to London. They didn’t come back. Then he sent a djinn – and she didn’t come back either. You two have certain – ” he lets the implication dangle – “powers that might make a difference in what you were able to turn up. <em>And </em>you clearly want something from Sa’id, something that he could give you, if you did this.”</p><p>Joe and Nicky look at each other again. They know damn well that Booker means the Ring of Solomon, and aren’t sure whether they should tell him anything about it. For all Booker – and Sa’id – know, they have possessed the Ring for all these centuries and just haven’t gotten around to doing something really spectacular with it. Or they have hidden it, but can easily pop off and retrieve it. Neither of which is true, and impossible for about a hundred reasons. But <em>this – </em></p><p>“So let me get this straight,” Joe says, cool as ice. “We’re supposed to sign up for a dangerous job to solve Sa’id’s bad investment for him, putting ourselves in potentially considerable personal danger to do so, on the vague promise that when it’s done and if we don’t also die, he <em>may </em>consider revoking my banishment and letting me go home and see my family for the first time in a goddamn <em>millennium? </em>For someone who used to hate and mistrust humans to the bone, Sa’id has certainly done well profiting off them, hasn’t he? Then again, I always knew that he wouldn’t be able to resist power. This has the nice little benefit of unearthing the – item – too, so he can just swoop in and grab it after being denied it the first time? Sounds like him. I’d have to be a total idiot to believe any of this, or anything he offered me, ever again. Fuck <em>off.”</em></p><p>Booker takes that with relative equanimity, though he flinches. He lifts his drink and polishes it off. Then he says, “Look, if Merrick <em>is </em>up to something shady, if he’s hurting people – ”</p><p>Joe doesn’t answer. He hates that this is the one argument that might have a chance of working. He and Nicky and Nile – with Andy and Quynh, back in the old days – have done that for a long time, to use their supernatural powers and unique abilities to protect and help ordinary people. Keep them from harm, do what they can, even though they have to take care not to be discovered. He and Nicky already independently sensed that Merrick was a little fishy. Maybe they can look into him, irrespective of anything to do with Sa’id and expecting nothing from him either way. That doesn’t mean they need the Ring of Solomon. But if they did, and they could finally pay Sa’id back for what he took, <em>make </em>him keep his word –</p><p>Joe shakes his head. It remains just as much the case as ever that he can’t go down that dark and tantalizing and oh-so-slippery slope, and even as furious as he is, he can’t forget himself. He doesn’t want to become the person he’s always fought so hard not to be, fail at the eleventh hour. He finishes his own drink – he’s not used to alcohol, he can feel it buzzing in his blood. Finally he says, “We have no reason to believe that you, <em>or </em>Sa’id, mean any of this.”</p><p>Booker reaches into his jacket pocket and removes a glossy pamphlet emblazoned with a blue-and-yellow airline logo: <em>Uzbekistan Airways. </em>He hands it to Joe. “Gesture of good faith.”</p><p>“What?” For an instant, Joe thinks that this means they know where Nile hid the Ring. The foothills of the Tian Shan lie partly in Uzbekistan. “What the hell is this supposed to be?”</p><p>Booker sounds a little irritated. “Just open it.”</p><p>Glowering at him, Joe does so, and discovers two round-trip plane tickets: London Heathrow to Islam Karimov Tashkent International Airport, dated two days from now – the day after Nile’s graduation, which is tomorrow (well, since it’s past midnight, technically today, but whatever). There is one in her name, in fact. The other is in his. Still unclear on what it is supposed to mean, Joe closes it with a pointed click. “Where’s Nicky’s?”</p><p>“The tickets are for you and Nile.” Booker rubs his eyes. “That’s the deal.”</p><p>“What deal?”</p><p>“They’re…” Booker struggles for words. “Look, once again, I don’t know the details. I just know that if you go to Tashkent, someone will be waiting there for you, and you’re supposed to take your daughter with you, since she has djinni blood. Nicky’s a vampire, so – ”</p><p>“I’m not going without Nicky,” Joe says, just as Nicky says, “I’m not staying behind without Joe.”</p><p>Booker eyes them with distinct aggravation, as if they might be one of those obnoxiously joined-at-the-hip couples who can’t set foot outside without a cutesy announcement on Instagram. “Fine,” he says. “Then give me the tickets back, I’ll tell Sa’id that you shot him down and he has to find someone else to look into Merrick, and we can all go on with our lives just as they are now. Is that what you want?”</p><p>At that, Joe hesitates. He’s been a pill to Booker for this entire time and he has every right to be, he isn’t about to jet off to Tashkent for God knows what reason and leave Nicky in London, especially if Merrick <em>is</em> up to no good, but it’s not like Nicky needs anyone to babysit him. The plane tickets alone are more than Sa’id has given him in nine hundred years, and –</p><p><em>You’re an idiot, </em>Joe reminds himself. <em>An idiot, and if you have anything to do with him at all, you have to be careful. </em>They were just intending to go home to Malta when the graduation festivities were over, it’s not like he has other plans to spoil, and even as angry as he is, he is not unmoved by the prospect of action, of unraveling a mystery, of finally getting a chance to kick Sa’id’s perfect teeth down his throat. He isn’t sure that this is the best reason for doing something, but it galvanizes him nonetheless. He doesn’t know if Nile will regard a sudden trip to Uzbekistan as the worst’s greatest graduation present, but…</p><p>He glances at Nicky again. “You really don’t mind if we do this? Go without you?”</p><p>“My heart,” Nicky says firmly. “You have been locked away from your home and family for nine centuries. It is not for me to say what choices you make when there’s finally a possibility that it could be otherwise. I know this was not your decision. I will be fine. I promise.”</p><p>Joe still feels guilty, but he clamps his hand around the plane tickets, then looks up at Booker. “I’ll take these either way,” he says. “It’s the least of what Sa’id owes me. We’ll call it a trial run. Nile and I will go to Uzbekistan. If absolutely anything suspicious happens there, if it’s some kind of test, if we have any problems, you name it, then we’re done. Never contact us again. Sa’id can piss up a rope. <em>If, </em>however, something happens that interests us, we’ll progress to the next step. And I want <em>this </em>agreement in writing. Get one of your fancy corporate lawyers to draft that up. Sa’id absolutely, explicitly, unconditionally promises to revoke my banishment and never impose anything like it ever again, the end. Or I will sue him for every single penny in his stupid fucking companies and throw him into an oil well.”</p><p>Booker’s mouth twitches. “I’ll pass that on,” he says again, dryly. “I’m glad you’re interested in doing business.”</p><p>“You’re a very pathetic man.” Joe gets to his feet as the Frenchman does, and they stare at each other for a final long and crackling moment. Then Booker offers his hand, and despite himself, Joe shakes it. “Tell Sa’id from me that he’s an asshole.”</p><p>“That,” Booker says, even more dryly, “I think he will have collected. Fine. The trip to Uzbekistan is scheduled for three days. I’ll be in contact when you’re back in London next week.”</p><p>Joe wants to growl at him that that’s highly optimistic, but it’s very late, he needs to get upstairs and collapse in Nicky’s arms where nobody is looking, and he’s had enough of this argument for the night. The three of them leave the bar, the bartender bangs down the grille behind them, and Booker strides out into the dark street. Joe and Nicky watch to be certain that he’s gone. Only then do they finally return upstairs to their room. Everything is outwardly the same, just as Joe left it several hours ago. And yet everything has changed.</p><p>Joe strips off his clothes, shrugs on his T-shirt and boxers, and falls on the bed. They’re supposed to meet Nile for brunch in the morning, and her graduation is at four o’clock PM. There will then be dinner and a lot of explaining afterward. Then evidently, go to the hotel, get packed, and fly off to Tashkent the next day. God, what is he doing? This is <em>idiotic.</em></p><p>Nicky undresses and crawls in next to him, pulling Joe into his arms. He senses that Joe is talked out, exhausted, beaten down and blindsided, and just wants to be held, so he doesn’t say a word. It’s so late that it’s starting to get light, since there are only a few hours of darkness in England at midsummer, and greyness touches the inside of the curtains. Not yet. Not quite. Joe doesn’t want to face it, to figure out what this means. He just wants the world to stop spinning.</p><p>And with that, slowly, restlessly, cradled against Nicky’s chest, he sleeps.</p><p>***</p><p>It feels like forever until Fredegund finally leaves. Nile feels like she’s just run a marathon, dazed and drained and having no idea what has just happened or what, if anything, she’s agreed to. She didn’t exactly chirp up and volunteer to unearth the Ring of Solomon just to please her insane vampire grandmother, but she also can’t recall if she shut her down. Her head is in a whirl, like she’s Dorothy picked up by the tornado and about to make a crash-landing in Oz. Does she need to call Jay instantly and apologize for something that Jay (if Fredegund can be trusted) doesn’t actually remember? Does she even <em>have </em>a relationship with Jay, or will she be able to look her in the eye again? She needs to find out what’s going on there, and she also has to find some way to tip Nicky off. This doesn’t feel like a conversation to have over the phone.</p><p>Stunned, Nile gets up, supposes that she should go to sleep before her big day tomorrow, and wanders into her bedroom, lying down fully clothed on top of the covers and squeezing her eyes shut. As if that’s going to shut off the roaring wind machine of her thoughts, and of course, it doesn’t. She opens her eyes again, grabs her phone, and sits upright, the small glowing square reflecting eerily in the darkness, as she types in “fredegund of france.” She doesn’t know if there’s any information to be had on this woman, or if she’s even <em>from</em> France, but if there is –</p><p>To Nile’s further shock, a Wikipedia entry readily pops up. It begins, “<strong>Fredegund</strong> or <strong>Fredegunda</strong> (Latin: <em>Fredegundis</em>; French: <em>Frédégonde</em>; died 8 December 597) was the Queen consort of Chilperic I, the Merovingian Frankish king of Soissons. She served as regent during the minority of her son Chlothar II from 584 until 597.” Then it goes on to explain that especially thanks to Gregory of Tours and his scathing portrait of her in the <em>History of the Franks</em>, Fredegund has a very bad reputation as the Original Evil Queen: murdering political rivals (and almost her own daughter), scheming and throat-cutting to secure her son’s position, persecuting bishops, seducing kings, torturing servants, you name it. Nile can’t be <em>sure</em> that it’s the same woman, who clearly did <em>not </em>die in 597, who just came to visit her, but she mentioned a Chlothar, who was her human as well as her vampire son, and the general aesthetic and attitude seems like it fits. If Fredegund was made a vampire sometime in the sixth century AD, she would be more than old enough to sire Nicky in the eleventh century, and if she almost killed her human daughter, is that why she hasn’t sired any vampire daughters? Afraid they would be a threat?</p><p>Nile leans back on her pillows, rubbing her eyes. Great. So she has Snow White’s wicked stepmother to deal with, even if Gregory (as he was known to do) exaggerated her misdeeds for rhetorical flourish. Fredegund doesn’t seem outright <em>evil, </em>but that assumes, again, that any of her explanations for why she sired Nicky and then abandoned him for centuries are anything close to accurate. She <em>does </em>seem misguided, controlling, harsh, ambitious, violent, ruling her brood of bickering, bloodthirsty immortal sons with an iron fist until it backfired… she did admit to killing Chlothar, which is apparently entirely in character, but despite her obvious and manifold personal flaws, some part of Nile wants to believe that she isn’t totally irredeemable. Or maybe that’s just the idiot optimist in her.</p><p>She blows out a ragged breath, plugs the phone into charge, and lies there with her eyes closed, still not particularly sleepy. She should call Jay, except now it’s four AM and nobody wants to be woken up to Talk About Our Relationship at four in the morning, especially when they’ve avoided confirming that it is one. Nile likes Jay, likes her a lot, but there remains the ever-present fact that she’s an unsuspecting human, and it feels like Nile’s fault for not cluing her in, for not saying anything, before this happened. Even if Jay doesn’t remember it, that doesn’t excuse or erase the violation. Fredegund has to know that it’s deeply, <em>deeply </em>uncool to feed on a human without consent (and there’s no way Jay either agreed or knew enough to agree). Then to just <em>erase </em>her memory, the same way she’s casually used mesmer to stop Nile from saying anything to Nicky… who <em>does </em>that?</p><p>No, Nile decides angrily. No, she will not stand for this nonsense. She will find some way to circumvent whatever Fredegund thinks she has on her, and they will make the right decision about what to do, together, as a family. Nicky will obviously be shocked and stunned and hurt, and they need to be there for him, but since he’s the one vampire in the world who <em>won’t </em>swear bloody revenge, Fredegund has dodged a bullet whether or not she deserves it. It’s the irony of why his vampire brother Chlothar ultimately died for nothing. They’re so tangled up in their literally cutthroat rivalries that it’s completely unfathomable that anyone could ever do anything else. Keeping their distance from these people, forced or otherwise, sounds like it’s been some kind of twisted blessing. But it’s still horrible that it had to be that way.</p><p>At last, through sheer effort of will, Nile forces herself into an uneasy doze, from which she is shocked at eight-thirty AM by the bleating of her phone alarm. She groans, slaps it, shuffles out, showers, dresses, and grabs her bag, since she won’t be coming back here for the rest of the day. It crosses her mind to wonder if Fredegund is just going to stroll back in and put her feet up. But even if she has a – to say the least – shaky concept of private property and personal space, she didn’t seem thrilled with Nile’s humble student digs. A literal queen probably wouldn’t be.</p><p>At that, a hyena laugh barks out of Nile’s mouth, turning halfway into a sob. This is supposed to be her big day, and instead she’s completely preoccupied worrying with how to tell her father about the sudden reappearance of her crazy grandmother, if she still has a girlfriend, if she’s been in horrible danger this whole time and hasn’t known it, and everything else. She bends over, hands on her knees, and allows herself to lose it for thirty whole seconds. Then she straightens up, wipes her face ruthlessly, locks the door and windows extra-carefully, and heads out.</p><p>It’s a warm, clear morning, the kind that have to be savored around here for their rarity, and as usual, Nile can barely squeeze onto the Central line to head out to Kensington, in west London. This is the extremely posh part of town, with palaces and parks and foreign embassies, tall white rowhouses, the Natural History Museum and the V&amp;A, the Royal Albert Hall, badly parked supercars, and other detritus of the rich and famous. Nile walks from Notting Hill Gate tube station to Granger &amp; Co., which has a line out the door, and manages to sneak inside by the fact that Joe and Nicky are already holding down the fort at a corner table. They’re talking so intently that they almost don’t notice when she maneuvers through the chattering crowd of brunching British yuppies and clears her throat. “Uh,” she says, a little shaky. “Hey, I’m here.”</p><p>Nicky looks up, sees her, and gets quickly to his feet, giving her a big hug. Nile hopes it’s her imagination that he already looks a bit rattled and red-eyed. “Hey,” he says. “Congratulations. Sit down, sit down. We have – well, we’re glad to see you.”</p><p>“Me too.” Nile slings her bag over the chair, exchanges air kisses with Joe, and sits down, as a waiter bustles up to provide her with a menu. She’s a little hungry, but she won’t be any less hungry when they’re done here, and she’ll have to sneak the last can of Red in her bag. She’s been informed that she simply <em>must </em>order the ricotta hotcakes with sliced banana and honeycomb butter, so she does so, along with a latte. There’s a long pause. Then she says, at the same time as Joe and Nicky, “I need to tell you something.”</p><p>Everyone screeches to a halt amid this unexpected verbal pile-up, and her fathers look at her, considerately letting her go first. Nile digs her fingernails into her palms; she <em>needs </em>to do this, even if this is, selfishly, not how she wanted to spend her graduation breakfast. “Dad,” she blurts out. “Last night. Someone came to – someone – I met – I thought I did, it was – ”</p><p>Hard as she tries, she can’t get the words out. And that isn’t a figure of speech for being too cowardly, although it feels like it. There is a physical presence, an iron lock, twisting around her throat and tongue, stopping the words, continuing to carry out Fredegund’s command: she ordered Nile not to tell anyone about her, so Nile actually, literally can’t. She’s never heard of a vampire that powerful, never heard of <em>anyone </em>that powerful, that their mesmer is still in effect even when they themselves are absent. She makes a choking noise, causing a fellow diner to look at her in concern as if she might require the Heimlich maneuver, and Joe and Nicky’s faces remain blank and perplexed. Finally Nicky says, sounding a little hurt, “It’s fine, you can tell us later.”</p><p>“No, I want – I want!” Nile is almost tearing up with the effort of trying to force the words out. “You really have to know this. Your – ”</p><p>Yet again, she can’t get any further, almost making her want to upend the entire table in frustration. She’s never really had any spectacular episodes of vampiric rage, since that’s not her style and it’s not Nicky’s either, but right then, she can understand the urge, even if this bright, sunny, pastel-colored eatery full of ordinary, oblivious humans enjoying their summery Saturday morning has absolutely nothing to do with anything. “Never mind,” she says at last, hating herself, feeling like an utter failure. “You – you go, I guess.”</p><p>Joe and Nicky look at each other again. Then Joe pulls something out of his coat pocket and says carefully, “How would you like to go to Uzbekistan tomorrow?”</p><p>Nile has unwisely just taken a sip of her latte, and very nearly does a spit-take. <em>“What?”</em></p><p>That, therefore, is how she learns about the <em>also </em>very interesting fashion in which Joe and Nicky spent last night. She sits there, stunned for an entirely different reason, as the full story comes out: Merrick Pharmaceuticals, Sebastien le Livre (apparently he’s still alive?), the offer from <em>King </em>Sa’id, the however-slim chance that Joe’s exile could finally be ended and he could really go home. It’s clear that nobody is putting a thimbleful of trust in Sa’id to hold up this bargain, given the stunts he pulled last time, but it’s not as if they have anything to lose. If they do this, it will be because they think there’s a good reason, and at the slightest hint of tomfoolery from Sa’id, everything is off. The trip to Uzbekistan – Tashkent, to be precise – is in some nebulous service of this aim, and Joe admits that he doesn’t know what they’ll find there. Him and Nile, that is. He’s been instructed to take her since she has djinni blood, which must mean a vampire is SOL.</p><p>“Trust us,” Nicky says, seeing the look on Nile’s face, “we are <em>very </em>not pleased at having to leave me behind. But we’ve decided that it’s a necessary evil, and if there’s something afoot in London, I can look into it while you two are gone. It would be very nice to have something that isn’t just Booker and Sa’id’s version of events, so – what?”</p><p>Nile has made another protesting noise, since obviously leaving Nicky alone, if Fredegund is planning to swoop in at this unattended juncture, is the last thing she wants. Then again, presumably, if Fredegund wanted to talk to Nicky first or wanted him to know about her, she would have done that. Instead, she’s just pulled this dirty trick, revealed herself to Nile, and left Nile unable to provide any kind of heads-up. Fredegund did seem maybe… twenty percent sincere about wanting the best for Nicky in a very twisted way, or at least she’s convinced herself that she’s right, because you always have to justify the worst things you’ve done. Besides, if this <em>could </em>lead to the one thing that Joe has wanted for literal centuries, a chance to go back, to find his family, to go home… Nile can’t refuse him that chance either. She feels deeply and comprehensively torn, like whichever one she helps, she fails the other. She can’t go and stay at the same time. She needs to make a choice.</p><p>‘Tashkent,” she says at last. “Tomorrow?”</p><p>“It looks that way, yes.” Joe leans back in his chair. “I don’t know if it’s what you expected, but – ”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Nile interrupts. The last thing she wants is them thinking she’s some spoiled princess too good for their graduation gifts, even if they’re unexpected on everybody’s part. She looks at Nicky. “Dad, just – just be careful, all right? If there’s something going on here, if there are unpleasant people running around, that could be – ”</p><p>Evidently the mesmer decides that counts as too close to talking about Fredegund, because Nile once more gags to a halt, grimaces, and determines to exploit absolutely every possible loophole when it comes to getting around this. Do texts count? Emails? Writing it down on parchment and tying it to the leg of a carrier pigeon? There has to be something, some caveat that Fredegund didn’t think of. She’s not exactly technologically savvy.</p><p>The rest of brunch passes in careful, offhand pleasant conversation. Nile feels like she’s sitting on an unexploded bomb, can’t really relax or enjoy the occasion. They finish their meal around the time she needs to head to King’s and pick up her regalia and get ready anyway. Everything looks so normal, even as Nile finds herself whipping her head around at every passing woman who looks even a little like Fredegund. They reach the Strand, Joe and Nicky pick up their graduation tickets, and Nile heads to the back room to speak to the fine Ede &amp; Ravenscroft people about her gown, hat, and other bells and whistles. When she’s dressed, she scours the milling throngs like the Terminator, until she finally spots Jay and rushes over. “Jay. Jay, thank God. Are you all right? I should have called earlier, but – ”</p><p>“I’m fine.” Jordan Montoya looks normal, even as Nile anxiously scans her neck for bite marks. “I’m sorry about last night, I meant to make it to the reception. I was just really tired.”</p><p>Yeah, Nile thinks, yeah, you were, because my insane vampire grandmother paid you a visit and bamboozled you into forgetting you met her, just so she could do the same thing to me a few hours later. She searches Jay’s eyes for the lingering cloudiness of mesmer, but this, of course, is the one thing Fredegund was truthful about: Jay doesn’t remember a damn thing. She’s looking at Nile as if she might be the disturbed one here, then smiles and beckons at her academic dress. “You look great. Congratulations. Are your dads here?”</p><p>“Yeah, they’re – somewhere.” Nile peers over the various heads. “I’ll find them. Look, Jay, are you sure that you’re all right? You don’t feel – weird, or anything?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Jay regards her with concern. “How about you? That end-of-PhD stress is real, I guess.”</p><p>Nile laughs hollowly, since to go into everything that she’s currently stressed about would take more time than she has. Since she’s resolved to adopt a new policy of complete truthfulness, which is ironic considering her current limitations, she says, “Jay, can we – can we talk? I’m actually off for a quick trip with my dad tomorrow, but when I get back, we should – I’m hoping we can sit down somewhere. I have things that I need to tell you.”</p><p>Jay looks surprised and a little wary, since these are never entirely encouraging words to hear from your partner, but agrees that they can; perhaps she’s feeling that they have both put off The Talk long enough. She kisses Nile on the cheek and congratulates her once more, promising to catch up with her again after the ceremony, and vanishes into the crowd, leaving Nile feeling even worse. It’s not like she wanted Jay to be mad at her, frightened of her, peppering her with questions about who or <em>what </em>she actually is, but this horrible waiting, this sword of Damocles suspended without having the decency to fall, is somehow just as bad.</p><p>The Department of History graduates are called to assemble in line, parents and family members filter into the hall, and the usual pomp and circumstance gets (literally) under way. Nile sits with the other doctoral candidates in their numbered seats, looks up herself in the program, catches sight of Dr. Kozak sitting with the faculty, and her supervisor gives her a wave. Nile waves back, a little feebly, and twists around until she spots Joe and Nicky in the audience. The ceremony starts mostly on time, and as a PhD with a last name in the upper reaches of the alphabet, Nile is the fourth graduate to be awarded her diploma. She crosses the stage, shakes hands with the vice chancellor, then returns to her seat as they roll through the second half of the PhDs, the masters’ students, and the usual parade of undergraduates. Unlike American graduation ceremonies, which can drag on for hours, the Brits are brutally efficient: pack ‘em in, pack ‘em out. The ceremony started just past four PM and is done by five, as everyone spills out into the hall. Nile shakes hands with Dr. Kozak, who says, “Congratulations, Dr. Freeman. What’s next for you?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Nile says, which is even more true than it was yesterday. “I’ll be in London for a little while longer, at least, so…”</p><p>At that moment, they’re interrupted by Joe and Nicky, who come up to hug her and bathe her in accolades, and Nile catches Dr. Kozak regarding Nicky speculatively. Not in the way that Nile always finds creepy, that she thinks he’s hot (Nile is objectively <em>aware </em>that Joe and Nicky are both DILFs, but like any child, thinking about her parents like that squicks her out intensely) but like he is a particularly interesting object of study. Well, she <em>is </em>a historian, and he is a walking thousand-year-old repository of arcane magical knowledge and firsthand experience of the medieval world, but she doesn’t know that, right? Then Dr. Kozak says casually, “If you’re going to be in London for a few more days, Mr. Freeman, is it possible that we could meet up for coffee? I have some questions that you might be able to help me with.”</p><p>Nicky looks startled. He’s wearing a wedding ring and is very obviously here as half of a duo (plus, you know, doesn’t bat for her team), so it can’t be that she’s expecting a date, but nothing about her businesslike manner suggests it. It’s still a slightly odd request to get from your daughter’s teacher, especially since he’s never said anything about having particular research competencies, but of course, he’s too well-mannered to outright turn her down. “Very well,” he says. “I will have some free time, actually. Let me know.”</p><p>“Here’s my card.” Dr. Kozak passes it to him. “Phone me when it’s convenient for you.”</p><p>With that, she disappears to congratulate another student, just as someone taps Nile on the shoulder, she turns around, and Jay gives her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations, Doctor. So official. And these must be your dads?”</p><p>“Yes, finally.” Nile smiles, strained. “Jay, this is Joe and Nicky. And this is – ” <em>Girlfriend, </em>prior to actually having The Talk, feels like jumping the gun, a status that hasn’t been earned, and <em>friend </em>sounds too cowardly. “This, uh, this is Jordan Montoya.”</p><p>Joe and Nicky likewise shake her hand and profess that it’s lovely to meet her, and Nile is dragged off to pose for the official school pictures. When those are finally done, it’s about the time she has to return her rented finery, so she hands it off, changes back to her regular clothes, and hurries out to reconnoiter with everyone. As she’s about to return to the hall, a hand catches her arm. “Miss – no, it would be Dr. Freeman now, wouldn’t it? Though I don’t think that a doctorate in the <em>liberal arts </em>is really the same as an M.D., do you?”</p><p>Nile bristles on reflex, annoyed even before she recognizes the face. It is, because of course it is, Stephen Merrick, looking just as smug as he did last night. He’s wearing his previous uniform of grey hoodie and jeans, deliberately underdressed for the occasion (who invited him anyway?) Their eyes flick to his hand, which is still on her arm. Then Nile says in a you-have-five-seconds-before-I-fuck-you-up voice, “Let go of me.”</p><p>“Apologies.” Merrick removes his hand with slightly exaggerated deference. “Right, all that Me Too business, wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. I suppose I should apologize for how… uncouth I’ve been thus far. You see, I really do find you interesting. If I’ve learned anything from Meta, it’s that all you humanities types will be especially desperate for employment, and I <em>do </em>have that to offer. If you could stand working for Big Pharma – ”</p><p>“What?” Nile stares at him. Aside from the obvious fact that Stephen Merrick has no idea how to talk to a woman (or possibly anyone) without being the worst, this makes no sense. Insult her, demean her degree, imply that she’s so hard up for work that she’ll slavishly accept anything he doles out, then invite her to take a <em>job </em>with his company? She’s a historian, at least most recently. She somehow doesn’t think that the pharmaceutical industry is hard up for those. Yes, she does know other things, but nothing that makes her an ideal candidate to be headhunted. Why isn’t Merrick at the medical school, basking in the results of his philanthropic largesse and recruiting the next generation of bright young things? Or did he do that too, and she’s just the bonus? What the hell. What the <em>hell.</em></p><p>“I need to go,” Nile says. “My parents are expecting me for dinner. Good evening, Mr. Merrick.”</p><p>“Miss Freeman – ”</p><p>She doesn’t stop to listen, especially since he’s already decided that one “doctor” is the most he can choke out. Feeling almost more afraid than she did with Fredegund, which makes <em>no </em>sense at all, Nile runs and doesn’t look back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a great place for a vacation – that is, if you’re very rich – but in terms of getting and remaining steadily inebriated throughout the working day, there is almost nowhere more inconvenient than Dubai. Selected hotels and clubs are allowed to sell alcohol under strictly regulated license conditions, in order to attract big-spending Western tourists and Instagram influencers on the hunt for the perfect exotic holiday snap, but there are draconian rules about consumption in public, hours of operation, suitable premises, availability of purchase, and pretty much anything else you can think of. Despite its eagerness for that sweet, sweet song of scratch, Dubai remains a tightly buttoned up, traditional Islamic kingdom where possession of any kind of drugs will get you landed indefinitely in jail and you can be deported for kissing on a beach. The two halves of it fit jarringly together, the ultra-luxe party destination and the insistence that it be kept modest and respectable. (Though like most places, anything goes behind closed doors.) The end result of which, as she’s sitting at At.mosphere, the trendy glass-walled restaurant on the 122<sup>nd</sup> floor of the Burj Khalifa, gazing out over the glittering city skyline, the cerulean waters of the Arabian Gulf, and a view that high-rollers shuck out millions of dollars, dirhams, dinars, and riyals to enjoy, is that Andromache of Scythia is nowhere near as drunk as she would like to be. She’s been nursing a neat whisky for an hour, and it’s early enough in the day that the smiling young waiter had to double-check whether they could serve it to her. Andy slipped him a few extra dirhams under the napkin, just to help the decision.</p><p>She takes another tiny sip, then a bite of waffle. This had better fucking be good, since all-inclusive breakfast at At.mosphere runs a cool 345 UAE dirhams a person (close to $100), and while it’s not like Andy can’t afford it, she would like to at least be able to believe that she is getting what she paid for. She arrived here a few days ago, and she has a room in the Armani Hotel in the lower levels of the skyscraper. Obviously, she could have opted for something more budget (though that is all relative in Dubai), but she wants to stay on site as much as possible. There’s no way she’s going to run any risk of missing the big arrival.</p><p>Andy chews her waffle experimentally (good, but a hundred bucks of good? She’s not sure) and washes it down with black coffee, which she also ordered to look like less of a lush. Because it takes so much to get her sloshed or interfere with her reflexes in any way, she’s taken to drinking vodka at breakfast the way most people would drink orange juice, and the trip to Dubai has been a jolting wake-up call in this department. She’s not an alcoholic, because for one thing, she’s immortal, it doesn’t matter what she puts in her body, and two, she’s still functioning and able to kick truly epic amounts of ass at the drop of a hat. An alcoholic couldn’t do that, could she? Clearly not. So, see. She’s fine. She has to be fine. Otherwise she’s just sad and pathetic, and Andromache of Scythia, Warrior Queen of the Steppes, does not do sad and pathetic.</p><p>(She’s fine.)</p><p>Andy glances at the newspaper next to her, which is the <em>Financial Times</em>. Like most of the Gulf kingdoms, press freedom and the UAE are not necessarily the best of friends, but the glitzy corporate types who roll through the Burj means that Western newspapers are readily available. The headline is something about how Merrick Pharmaceuticals, best known for breaking records with its IPO on the London Stock Exchange a few years ago, has once more been raking in the profits on its new super-drug. There are a lot of rave reviews from doctors about how it reverses even advanced cell decay and shows potential for treatment of rare cancers, and a boastful quote from Stephen Merrick, the young and obnoxious-looking CEO, about how it’s set to become more popular than Viagra. (Given humans and their perennial sex problems, that seems unlikely.) Andy snorts, glances at the name of the drug, and snorts again. <em>Æternatis</em>. Yeah, she could tell them a thing or two about that. The takeaway seems to be if you too want to become very rich (and hey, maybe even afford your very own Dubai vacation) you should run, not walk, to your nearest stockbroker and ask them to help you snap up the new round of competitively-priced shares in MPS that have just become available and are guaranteed to skyrocket in value still further. At least until the bubble bursts. Ah, capitalism.</p><p>Andy pushes the newspaper away, returns to her waffle-and-whisky breakfast, nibbles at the caramelized banana and strawberry chantilly served in white ceramic ramekins, and catches the eye of the waiter when he comes to see how she’s doing. “Any chance of a refill on the drink?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Ms. Black.” The waiter looks apologetic. “It’s normally only water, juice, tea, and coffee that are inclusive at breakfast, licensing hours are quite strict, and – ”</p><p>Andy passes him another 100-dirham note. “I can take this one fast.”</p><p>The waiter wavers. She doesn’t want to make anyone lose their jobs or cause any grave cultural offense, but this place is frequented by some of the richest people in the world (it and the Burj Al-Arab, the hotel that looks like a sail and set on its own artificial island a thousand feet offshore), and it can’t be the first time they’ve been asked for the hair of the dog at unsuitable hours. He sighs deeply, slips the bill into his pocket, and returns with a topped-up Glenfiddich, sliding it discreetly across the counter to her. “I really do have to insist that this is the last one.”</p><p>“It is.” That is, as it happens, the truth. Andy has been trying to set this up for years, and she isn’t going to ruin it by being sloppy. She just needs a little more to steady her nerves and her hands. She can’t let herself think about the possibility that she sees Quynh again tonight, after almost four hundred years. She can’t think about what she’s done trying to achieve that, and what else she’s lost. But this, she tells herself, this will make up for it all. If things break right, she can go back to Joe, Nicky, and Nile with a tangible gift, not just the pointless wandering of a not-quite-alcoholic. God, has it been a hundred <em>years? </em>Time flies. Especially when you’re too ashamed to face your friends, and so you lose touch, and you are the only reason you’re alone.</p><p>Andy shakes her head, takes a sip, and automatically ducks out of the range of the giggly, selfie-taking bachelorette party a few tables away, having the big pre-wedding breakfast. She guesses that they’re Lebanese, from the accent of their Arabic and the fact that the group is divided between Muslim hijabis and former Maronite Catholic schoolgirls wearing crosses. The bride-to-be is sporting some Rock of Gibraltar-sized diamond, and Andy idly tries to guess how much the wedding costs ($30 million at least) and what her fiancé does (oil, investment banking, or just born with a golden spoon in his mouth). She pounds back the whisky, returns the glass, murmurs a thanks, then gets up and strides out of the restaurant.</p><p>Andy rides the elevator all the way down to the lobby, makes her way to the adjoining Armani Hotel through a glittering glass skyway, and goes to her room. The drapes over the balcony door are still shut, and she shoves them open, admitting a spear of sunlight into the dimness. Her humble carryon suitcase, in stark contrast to the three trolleys of monogrammed Louis Vuitton that some Chinese tycoon and his bejeweled wife rolled in with the other day, is open on the bed, which is tousled and unmade. Andy left the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, since she doesn’t want anyone rooting around in here, and it appears to have been honored. The room looks like the messy outtake from a <em>GQ </em>shoot or some other aggressively luxurious macho arbiter of culture: tall glass windows, black silk sheets, dove-grey curtains, super-modern chrome fittings and futuristic kitchenette appliances, sleek white wood and low-slung leather armchairs. You don’t want to know how much it’s costing Andy a night, but that is likewise classifiable as a business expense. Besides. It’s not like she’s going to run out of money.</p><p>Andy brushes her teeth, decorously changes into something that covers shoulders and knees (designer skinny jeans in lightweight denim, black silk blouse with cap sleeves) and does her makeup. Then she checks her watch. The delegation is supposed to get here at noon, they’ll have a big business lunch, and roll into the corporate suites to start actual meetings around two-thirty, if she’s lucky. That will take up the afternoon, they’ll break around six for dinner (and maghrib prayer, if any of the members of the traveling party are devout), and there will be a small window of time, between the end of meetings and the arrival of limousines or helicopters to whisk them off to evening amusements, where she might have a chance. She could make a lot more of one in her usual fashion, but one mistake could cause all number of things to blow sky-high. Much as it pains her, Andy has even left the axe at home (currently a squalid bedsit in Istanbul, rented monthly and paid in cash). She only has a few throwing daggers, and any scene will bring numerous security forces running. She wants a wish, not a war.</p><p>Andy stares at herself in the mirror, runs her fingers through her short dark hair to do… something to it, and leaves the bathroom, pulling on her sunglasses, grabbing her purse, and sliding on a pair of sensible low-heeled shoes that are still capable of breaking a man’s nose with a direct hit. She looks around the room to make sure she has everything she needs, that anything incriminating is out of sight in case housekeeping <em>does </em>come to call, and leaves.</p><p>It’s bright, blue, and pushing thirty-seven degrees Celsius by the time Andy steps outside, with humidity that makes it even more sweltering, but she’s seen every kind of climate and weather imaginable and doesn’t flinch. She catches a bus from the Dubai Mall and rides through the glittering urban canyonlands of downtown – past luxury shopfronts, marble-lined promenades, amber-brick castle towers and city walls, palm trees, spouting fountains, revving supercars driven at high speed by Saudi youths with slicked-back hair, and the white mega-yachts docked along the waterfront – and takes the ferry across to the souk district in Deira. Dubai is sometimes known as the “City of Gold” due to its prominence in the global trade of the aforesaid precious metal, and the famous Dubai Gold Souk is a sprawling covered market containing almost four hundred retailers of gold, silver, gems, and other fine jewelry. Security, to say the least, is therefore tight. A couple of rent-a-cops with German shepherds loom officiously at Andy as she goes in, but don’t otherwise bother her.</p><p>Inside, Andy pulls down her sunglasses, wipes the sweat off her forehead, stands in the blast of a hard-working electric fan, and mulls her options. She hasn’t used her magic very much since she lost Quynh; it just hasn’t felt right, it doesn’t work, like hopping around on one leg or trying to cast spells with both eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back. But she gives into it now, drawing it up like a disused skill or half-forgotten foreign language, sensing the faint thread of magic that winds through this place. As she hoped, she can make out the distinct impression of jinn. For all its glitz and glamor, Dubai is only a thin built-up strip along the coast. Outside the city limits, the land turns back into endless sand dunes very quickly.</p><p>Andy strolls along the narrow lanes of the souk, occasionally stopping to glance at a particularly gleaming piece and to be earnestly exhorted to purchase it by the hard-working merchants shut in their sweaty booths. But she doesn’t stop until she turns a corner and beholds a darker and less-trafficked stand, staffed by an old man in traditional ghutrah, agal, and kandurah. His pieces are less impressive, smaller and more humble, nothing to catch the eye of anyone shopping for the likes of the bride’s ring from breakfast this morning, but that is their mistake. The battered velvet trays with their foam inserts contain items of real magic, and as she approaches, Andy and the proprietor lock eyes. He knows what she is at a glance, and bows slightly, hand on his heart. “As-salaam alaykum,” he says, in Gulf Arabic. “How may I help the witch today?”</p><p>Andy studies him narrowly. His ears are covered by the ghutrah, so she can’t tell if he’s a djinn; half-bloods usually come out with round human-like ears, but he might be one of those too. A magical creature of some stripe, in other words, and possibly also a paid informant who could send up her plan in smoke before it ever gets off the ground. She needs to find what she’s looking for, but carefully, and she smiles demurely. “I’m looking for something to help my spellwork,” she answers. “A ring, perhaps, or a charm. What do you recommend?”</p><p>The proprietor can clearly tell that she wants the good stuff, can recognize it and also pay for it, since he dismisses his display cases with a scoff, pushes aside a black curtain, and removes a second tray of magical rings. These are indeed of relatively decent power, as Andy can tell from the auras coruscating above them, and she brushes her fingers along the smooth curve of the bands, searching for one that will meet her requirements. Since Dubai <em>is </em>the City of Gold, some of these have to be Banu Maḏhab-made. They’re distinct in their workmanship, their power (and for that matter, their price), and in this case, their abilities. What Andy has in mind is a version of the infamous djinni lamp curse, where if they enter the vessel, they remain bound to it indefinitely as a slave. Likewise, if a djinn willingly puts on a magical ring, they have to grant its owner at least one wish, the reason Joe couldn’t touch the Ring of Solomon all the way back in Jerusalem. How strong or permanent the binding is depends on the power of the artifact; none of the rings here are (thank God) up to that level, but for what Andy has in mind, they should work just fine. It’s not strictly specified that it has to be a ring belonging to the same tribe as the mark, but it does increase the magical obligation, and when it comes to their old friend King Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab, Andy is not taking chances.</p><p>At last, she finds what she’s looking for: a ring that bears a Banu Maḏhab smith’s mark, set with a fire opal and humming with enough power to make Andy’s fingers buzz. She keeps looking at a few other pieces, so she doesn’t seem to be rushing to a decision or paying undue attention to it, then finally announces that she’s made up her mind, hands over a rubber-banded roll of dirhams, and watches as the old man pops the ring into a black box and then a paper bag. She thanks him, they exchange polite farewells, and she can sense his eyes on her as she leaves. Dubai is an international and cosmopolitan city, and you get people from all over the world, but to other magical creatures, Andy leaves a certain imprint, a signature, an undeniable mark. She’ll have to hope that nobody comes asking questions, but if they do, as ever, she will deal with it.</p><p>The outside temperature has reached a bracing forty degrees, with a heat index closer to fifty, by the time she emerges from the cool warrens of the souk into the blistering sun, and Andy grimaces, dawdling in the shade to mull her options. She has another hour until Al-Maḏhab Capital Partners arrive at the Burj, assuming that they’re on time, and she fights the paranoid impulse to rush back and station herself craftily behind a potted palm. It might be better if she wasn’t there the very instant they turned up – some of them are obviously jinn, they might take notice of a strange witch, just as the jewelry seller did this morning. She could walk down to the waterfront Deira Corniche, or take the tram to Al-Mamzar and dip her feet in the Gulf. From where she stands, she can see north to Sharjah, which is technically another emirate, though it forms part of the major urban agglomeration with Dubai. There are mosques and markets and beaches to explore there too, if she gave into the urge to wander. She’s been on earth for over six thousand years, but she still hasn’t seen everything, and she retains her curiosity. Once she gets Quynh back, she might even be happy again.</p><p>Andy catches herself. Chickens before they’re hatched, all that, and she’s pursued any number of totally fruitless schemes in the past. She has to fight against the painful, seductive, tiny part of her that thinks this one can’t possibly go wrong, even though it very much can. It would be easier, after all this time, if she was a dead-eyed automaton with no emotions and no belief and no desire to keep fighting or doing anything, and sometimes she does slip close to the despair event horizon. But then the next day, she will inevitably swear, groan, drink some more booze, get out of bed, and try again. It’s obnoxious, that way. Surviving.</p><p>Finally Andy decides to head back in the direction of the Burj, but she doesn’t have to run. She takes the ferry back to the downtown district, catches the southbound bus, and gets off about halfway. She navigates the narrow, shady side streets past a variety of Arabic cafés, Western-style coffee shops, trendy pop-up restaurants, Indian takeaways, and the humble cement corner stores and vendor windows where Dubai’s long-suffering working class get their lunches, sitting in the shade under weathered canvas awnings and glancing at her interestedly as she goes by. Andy stops to purchase a baklava and an iced latte at an airy bakery, and hears the call to zuhr prayer boom over the rooftops from the sculpted amber minarets of the Jumeirah Mosque. She thinks suddenly about Joe, and the fact that her shopping trip this morning was closer than he’s been to the djinni world in nine centuries – if he had been with her, they would have managed to wander the souk for hours and never find that stall. This is for him, what she’s doing with Sa’id, as much as for her. She wants to go back to the others. They’re the closest thing to family she has, and she’s left them behind. Understandably, perhaps. But still.</p><p>Andy eats the baklava (she has something of a habit of sampling them wherever she goes), drinks the latte, then decides that she should be getting back. It’s still a little too far to walk, especially in this heat, so she hails a taxi and watches downtown pass from the comfort of the air-conditioned backseat. The Burj Khalifa rises impressively into the horizon ahead of them, a slender, glittering chrome needle that pierces the underbelly of the heavens, blinding in the full midday glare. This will work, she tells herself again. It has to.</p><p>Finally the cab pulls up to the Burj, Andy tips the driver generously, and goes inside. She pays another wince-worthy price for a ticket to At The Top, the outdoor observatory deck crowning the tower, and hauls ass all the way back up in the elevator; it’s a good thing she doesn’t lose her head with heights. She steps out into the glass sky lounge, as people shuffle around with phones out to snap photos of the entire emirate laid out in a glittering checkerboard far below. Some of them laugh and shriek when their friends pretend to push them, and get sternly told off by the security guards. Andy unobtrusively takes up a spot on the balcony closest to the front of the hotel, where she has an excellent view of the boulevard below. From this high up, the cars and people look like scuttling ants, but she has magic to help out. In a few moments, she’s constructed a perfect observation post with – she checks her watch again – three minutes to spare. Time to see how punctual jinn kings are.</p><p>She wanders a few steps, never straying far, until something tugs at her spell and she glances over the edge just in time to see a handsome motorcade of expensive black cars pulling in – it looks like the fucking sheikh of Dubai himself, though given the visitor’s stature, it’s not surprising. Andy mutters a few adjustments under her breath, refines the perspective, and then all at once, larger than life, there he is. It swells up in a fish-eye view, as Andy doesn’t risk getting the spell too close in case the presence of unfamiliar magic is sensed by the vigilant, burly bodyguards who step out of the car in advance of their principal. It seems Sa’id has changed a number of things about how he does business these days, if he’s relying on someone else, and not his own magic, to keep him safe. Andy hopes that’s a further wedge in.</p><p>In the dazzling sunlight, King Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab in the flesh looks more beautiful, commanding, and golden than ever. He’s likewise wearing a ghutrah and agal, looking like any other Saudi royal, and also, Andy imagines, to hide his pointed ears without the bother of maintaining a glamour. He has a short, crisp black beard, expensive sunglasses, a tailored Italian suit, and the indefinable air of wealth and prosperity that hangs around the super-rich, every little detail perfect, everything that you wouldn’t even have thought of impeccably turned out. There’s a flock of adoring executives waiting to shake his hand and welcome him to Dubai – Andy strains, but the spell can’t quite pick up their conversation, not that it’s likely to be very interesting – and engage in the usual round of deferential head-bobbing. Then Sa’id beckons to his entourage, and they vanish inside the Burj like a train of very well-groomed ducklings.</p><p>Despite the blazing heat, Andy feels cold from head to heel. They’re here. It worked. It’s happening. She’s been trying to catch Sa’id for years and years; it’s pure luck that she heard about the Dubai meetings. She can’t reach him whenever he’s safe behind an impenetrable wall of djinni magic, in one of his seven luxurious palaces across the Middle East; they don’t move around anymore, but their locations are kept scrupulously secret for that exact reason. The medieval tribal politics of the Seven Jinn Kings have been replaced with different kinds of maneuvering and rivalry, and she just has to hope that Sa’id is so involved with his human concerns that he’s thinking about it less. Okay. One thing at a time. No room for mistakes.</p><p>Andy loiters around the observation deck until it starts to be noticeable, then descends back to At.mosphere level and peers into the restaurant. They have a private dining room where high-rollers can eat out of view of the rest of the clientele, and she magically inspects the notice on the door, which confirms that it is reserved for Al-Maḏhab Capital Partners. Right, everything still going how she thought. She has to play it casual and kill the rest of the afternoon. She’s possessed with a jittering, nervous energy, a need for action, having to forcibly restrain herself from bursting in then and there. She needs Sa’id alone. Even if he too is out of practice with magic, the Golden One is nothing to mess with. He can’t do to her what he did to Joe, since she’s not a djinn, but his roster of inventive punishments should not be put to undue test.</p><p>Andy spends the afternoon pretending to be fascinated by the various exhibits and attractions in the Burj, never straying more than a dozen floors away or so, keeping constant track of the delegation. They make it to the corporate suites around two, which is slightly faster than she thought, and Andy keeps an eye on the proceedings until almost four, when the built-in muezzin sounds the call to asr throughout the building. A few of the tourists stop what they’re doing to retreat to prayer rooms behind frosted-glass doors, but the Al-Maḏhab Capital Partners meeting carries on undisturbed. Business before piety, evidently.</p><p>Finally, around six-thirty, the suite door opens and the delegations emerge. Sa’id is in the middle of an attentive throng, giving one underling his dinner order and telling someone else to phone his assistant, still involved in conversations about billion-dollar development plans and telecom industry upgrades, looking as fresh and striking as ever even after a long afternoon in the office. Nobody can say he isn’t working for a living, Andy supposes. But she doesn’t see a clear way of separating the king from his minions, and if he gets into the elevator and is whisked off to his private Residence, she’ll lose another guaranteed shot at him. Now or never.</p><p>She pulls her phone out of her pocket, pretends to be very involved in a call, and stumbles out directly into the king’s path, clipping him with her shoulder and dropping the opal ring on the carpet in front of him. This scandalous breach of protocol and physical contact with a VVIP sends the minions into hysterics, and Andy is scolded from all sides. She apologizes repeatedly, sounding sufficiently close to tears that Sa’id reprimands them and waves them onward, and they have a few precious instants alone. To Andy he says, “Ma’am, are you all right?”</p><p>“I’m fine.” Andy sniffs. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t – here, is this yours? I think you dropped this.”</p><p>She holds up the ring, hoping that it will work at least partially if he takes it, even if he doesn’t put it on. It’s a ridiculously low-tech ploy, but using any kind of magic to attract his attention will be even more suspicious. And indeed, whether because she deserves it after this long, or from simple dumb luck, Sa’id accepts the ring automatically – he’s the kind of guy for whom it’s completely plausible that he could drop random priceless jewelry – and starts to slide it onto his finger. It’s over the first knuckle when he suddenly notices the magic, looks up, and their eyes lock. In that instant, no matter the fact that they last saw each other in the twelfth century, a flash of ice-cold recognition crosses his face. But it’s too late. The ring is on his finger, and Andy feels a click like a key turning in a lock. She doesn’t know how long she has, or how strong the spell is, and she can’t waste time. “Your Majesty, I have a question for you.”</p><p>“Andromache of Scythia.” Sa’id studies her with those deep golden eyes. She has to give him credit, he doesn’t miss anything. He’s always been smart, but not exactly in the way he thinks. “To what do I owe the… pleasure of this <em>very </em>old acquaintance?”</p><p>“I’m glad you remember me.” Andy knows it’s a matter of minutes, if that, until his flock comes back to rescue him, and she steps off to the side, forcing him to follow her. A flame of loathing burns in his face; he went to all the lengths he did to capture the Ring of Solomon and remove any possibility of being enslaved by a human, and now, even temporarily, it’s happened to him. It’s definitely a first for a man as rich and powerful and privileged as him, and even the phantom weight of shackles is something he can’t abide. “I was going to refresh your memory on how you had one of your agents shoot me in King Baldwin of Jerusalem’s throne room and sent Sebastien le Livre to convey me to your custody, but I can see that I don’t need to. I’ll make this quick. By the terms of that ring on your finger, willingly taken, you owe me a wish. I wish for you to tell me exactly where in the world the witch Quynh is, whether she is alive or dead or in any other condition, and take me to that place immediately.”</p><p>She waits, braced to be whisked off (whether it would be as she ordered is another question) but nothing happens. Sa’id continues to regard her flatly, arms folded. “I cannot.”</p><p>“What do you mean, you <em>can’t?” </em>Wise decision or otherwise, Andy is just about to go for one of the iron daggers in her boot. Sa’id isn’t Banu Zawba’ah, it can hurt him, and while she’s not going to actually torture him, she’s… feeling a little unhinged, and she can do dangerous things when she’s in this state. Plus, she’s sober, which is worse. “I just wished for it. And I <em>know </em>the command is strong enough to cover one wish.”</p><p>“Not this wish.” Sa’id’s mouth twists. “There is a barrier which even I cannot penetrate. Perhaps if you had tricked me with another ring – say, the Ring of <em>Sulaiman – </em>” he spits it with naked venom – “that could have been overcome. But there is nothing but blackness where any trace of your lost companion should be. I cannot see her, I cannot sense her, I can tell you nothing about her. So while I regret your misfortunes, I can do nothing for them.”</p><p>“Bullshit.” Andy takes another step, seething, until they’re almost nose to nose. “You’re the High King of the Jinn. You can do things like banishing my friend from the magical world and from his own family for centuries. You can find one witch.”</p><p>Sa’id jerks at the mention of Joe. He clearly wants to lash back at her, but doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of realizing she’s gotten under his skin. Instead he says, “Perhaps, madam, you could have comprehended the problem by your own words just now. Quynh is a witch. I am a djinn. I have no mastery over her, authority over your species, or knowledge of witch magic. I can neither command nor revoke any decrees given by other witches, or interfere unduly in their affairs. If I knew where she was, I would take you, as you have <em>wished. </em>But I don’t.”</p><p>They eye each other loathingly, at an impasse. The ring still burns on Sa’id’s finger; Andy can feel the magic in effect, it should be working, it should be <em>working. </em>Desperation buzzes in her skull. She has worked toward this entire plan for decades and it’s turning to shit in five minutes. She’s tempted to repeat the order, like she just didn’t speak loudly enough the first time, but it’s hard to see why that would change it. Then Sa’id says, “Perhaps you will do me the honor of even telling me what was supposed to have happened to your companion, Lady Andromache?”</p><p>Andy hesitates. She doesn’t know what mischief Sa’id could get up to with the information, but it’s four hundred years old, it’s not like it’s recent and classified, and something burns it out of her. “The seventeenth century,” she says. “In England. We were helping the women caught up in Matthew Hopkins’ persecutions.” One of the most prolific witch-hunters of all time, even though his career spanned only three short years between 1644 and 1647, Hopkins was a nastily unpleasant character; he sent over a hundred innocent women to their deaths for accused witchcraft and triumphantly wrote <em>A Discoverie of Witches </em>to assist his successors. “Of course, this quickly resulted in us being accused and arrested ourselves. We were convicted and hanged repeatedly, but it didn’t work. Finally, Quynh was – she was taken from me. Shut into an iron coffin and – I don’t know what they did with her. It had to have been a real and considerably powerful supernatural creature involved in her confinement, not just humans, because I spent decades searching for her with Joe and Nicky and Nile. We never found her. We never found <em>anything. </em>I know as much about what happened to her as I did back then. Nothing.”</p><p>Sa’id’s face flickers again at the mention of Joe and company, the confirmation that despite his banishment, Joe has managed to have a new life with the vampire and the human (as she was then) that he chose over his old duty and love for Sa’id, his promise to bring him the Ring. It scrapes in Andy’s throat as well, for a different reason. She still feels incredibly, stupidly guilty for not being able to get over Quynh’s loss, for not just deciding to stay with Joe and Nicky and their daughter. But they’re a family already. They didn’t, so went some poisonous voice in her brain, need her. It twisted in her gut every time she watched them being happy and together, and it wasn’t their fault, but eventually it was the only thing she could see. Besides, surely they didn’t want her being a bummer, dragging them down, constantly brooding over new plans to rescue Quynh, when they had no proof that she was even still alive. So they last spoke in Sarajevo a hundred and fourteen years ago, two days before Franz Ferdinand got shot and absolutely everything went to hell and pretty much stayed that way, and Andy hasn’t really been in contact with them since. She just slipped away, and now she has no idea how to find her way back. It was all predicated on catching Sa’id and forcing him to fix this, since he had such a big hand in messing it up. But as he says, he had nothing to do with Quynh. And that –</p><p>Andy feels like her spine has been snapped, like there’s cold water rushing over her head, like she doesn’t know what else to do if she doesn’t have this single-minded quest to occupy her. Her knees buckle; she wants to sink through the floor, fling herself off the skydeck, fall and fall and see if even a leap off the tallest building in the world will keep her cursedly, confoundedly alive. She and Sa’id continue to stare at each other. There might be a grain of sympathy in his expression, at least for a moment. Then he shakes his head. “As I said, Lady Andromache, I am sorry for your difficulties, but there is nothing I can do. Release me from this ring, and – ”</p><p>“Not quite.” Andy’s voice is hoarse. Sa’id <em>does </em>still owe her a wish, and if he can’t grant this one, she has a few in reserve. “I want you to undo Yusuf al-Kaysani’s banishment.”</p><p>Too late she remembers that she hasn’t explicitly said <em>I wish, </em>which is the kind of loophole that jinn like to exploit, but Sa’id shakes his head anyway. “I cannot.”</p><p>“Oh?” Andy snarls. “And what’s the excuse this time?”</p><p>“I have set that to be governed by a different magical law, one separate from me, and one which he himself can undo if he was willing to repent of his misdeeds against me and our entire race.” Sa’id’s eyes flash. “Events are already in motion, I will not prejudice them, and the magic of this ring is not strong enough for you to force me to do so. So if that is all – ”</p><p>Andy curses under her breath. Obviously, this was the best she could do, but it’s still massively annoying that this ring doesn’t possess enough power to command the High King of the Jinn on major wishes. As he pointed out, there’s only one Ring that <em>does </em>have that ability, and it’s best for everyone (or is it? Because frankly, she’s tempted) that it remains lost. Fine. Surely there’s something he <em>can </em>tell her. She stares into his eyes. “Very well. I wish for you to tell me where the djinn Maryam al-Katibi of the Banu Zawba’ah lives, if she <em>does </em>live, and how I may find her.”</p><p>That gets a reaction. Sa’id flinches, and he clearly doesn’t have another explanation as to why he can’t do that. He fights the compulsion for a moment longer, then growls, “Carthage. The djinn that you seek lives in Carthage.”</p><p>Andy nods at the notepad in his breast pocket. “Write down the address.”</p><p>Sa’id bares his teeth, but does as ordered. As Andy suspected, “Carthage” means Tunis, the capital of Tunisia, which sits just outside the site of the historical city. In fact, Andy was there when it <em>was </em>Carthage; she and Quynh knew Queen Dido, who got an unfair reputation as the silly lovesick woman who killed herself out of grief when Aeneas left to eventually head to Italy and become the forefather of Rome, but who was a brilliant and capable ruler who built Carthage and its glittering civilization from scratch. Sa’id rips off the paper and hands it to her. “You will recall that the djinn Maryam al-Katibi is the mother of a traitor, and undue contact attempts on your part will be taken as a sign of subversion against my – ”</p><p>“What was that?” Andy gives him a vulpine smile. “I thought you said that you’re a djinn and thus you don’t have authority over witches. Thus you can’t really command me or control what I do, now can you?”</p><p>Sa’id’s eyes burn with hatred, but he does not have a ready retort. “There. I have done as you asked. The compulsion is fulfilled. Release me.”</p><p>Andy eyes him up and down, trying to decide if there’s still enough magic left to get away with a second wish, but she can sense that she’s pushing it. Besides, at least she has something, and that is more than she thought she was going to walk away with. “I release you,” she says, matching his coldness with her own. “I apologize for such a disruption to your busy schedule. My best wishes, Your Majesty. Good evening.”</p><p>The light in the opal goes dark, Sa’id rips the ring off as if it’s a snake and throws it on the ground, and Andy scoops it up, making her exit just as one of the lackeys emerges from the elevator to see what’s taking the king so long. She speeds into it, hammers the Door Close button before Sa’id can follow her, and can hear her heart thudding in her ears all the way down. She should get out of here. Sa’id may not be able to <em>technically </em>do anything to her, but he didn’t look like that would entirely constrain him, and she’s managed to briefly enslave <em>and </em>trick him, which are unbearable insults as far as he’s concerned. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, but an angry High King of the Jinn close at hand is a problem best finessed, and fast.</p><p>Andy gets out of the elevator, returns to her room at a trot just this side of a run, and opens her laptop. She purchases a ticket to Tunis-Carthage International Airport on the Emirates flight, which leaves at 8:00 am tomorrow morning (only one remaining, the website informs her), pays for it without looking at the price, and gets up, throwing things into her suitcase. Once she’s sure that she has everything, she leaves the room key on the nightstand and heads out of the hotel into the sweltering, plush purple-golden evening, hailing another cab. This one takes her to the Hilton Dubai Airport Hotel, where she buys whatever passes for their economy room and sits down on the bed, feeling dizzy. Sa’id doesn’t know where Quynh is. Whatever has happened to her is something so far beyond any ordinary fate that it’s almost impossible to fathom.</p><p>Andy sleeps in fitful bursts, never undressing all the way, never dropping under. She finally gets up at five AM, heads to the airport, checks in with plenty of time to spare (her Czech passport gives her name as “Alexandra Black”) and sits restlessly in the gleaming chrome terminal until it’s time to board, glancing at anyone who passes too close to her. She doesn’t even know what she’s going to do, but it’s the next lead, it’s something, and she can’t stop now, can’t run out of momentum. Slam into the brick wall, but only when it’s there. Otherwise she’ll just crumple.</p><p>Boarding is called, Andy shuffles aboard with the rest of the traveling public, and stares aimlessly out of the window for most of the six-and-a-half-hour flight. Due to time changes, they leave at eight AM but arrive at eleven-thirty, and Andy stumbles off into the terminal, squinting against the brightness. She clears customs with relatively minimum fuss, says that she’s here to visit a friend of the family (even mostly true) and steps out to the cab rank. Forty-five minutes after the plane wheels hit the ground, she is en route into the city.</p><p>Tunis is hot, bright, and bustling, and the whitewashed buildings of downtown glow almost iridescently, towers of sunlight daggering onto the deep waters of the bay. Distant mountains rise blue and gauzy on the horizon, and palm trees sway in the hot summer wind. All the signs are in Arabic and French, with a few in Amazigh as well, and the place seems, on the whole, to be doing relatively well. The Arab Spring started here in December 2010, when a street vendor set himself on fire in protest at the corrupt and autocratic regime, and out of all the regional protests that followed, only Tunisia managed to make any lasting change out of it: the country is actually in the process of being rebuilt as a free and modern democracy, though there are the usual growing pains along the way. The cab driver turns down a humble street in one of the suburbs, nosing past low-slung white apartment buildings and stacks of wooden crates and motorbikes parked against gates, and comes to a halt at the end. “Are you sure this is right, madam?” he asks in careful English. “Perhaps you have another address?”</p><p>“This is it.” Andy can tell that this isn’t a tourist’s part of town, hence his confusion, and hopes that Sa’id hasn’t led her into a trap, but she doesn’t think he had that much time to plan for it. “I’m visiting a friend’s mother, that’s all.”</p><p>The driver looks dubious, but shrugs and decides that it’s her funeral, and there’s a brief hiccup about how to pay him, since Andy doesn’t have any Tunisian dinars in cash and he doesn’t have a credit card machine. Finally, she manages to send him a CashApp (technology is occasionally good for something), then gets out and stares up at the building. It’s very traditional-looking, with wooden doors, a few rugs spread on the ground, a string of lights on an outdoor rooftop garden, and arched and vaulted windows veiled in colorful handmade curtains. Andy looks at the address again. This is it. Theoretically.</p><p>The first door she knocks on does not produce Maryam, but a slightly confused older man in a fez, who is nonetheless very polite and tells her that the woman she is looking for lives in the apartment around the back. Andy opens a gate into a small but thriving garden, ducks through the vines and flowers and buzzing insects, and comes to a halt in front of a weathered red door. This humble human flat must be a far cry from whatever elegant villa Maryam lived in, back in magical Cairo, and perhaps it was too painful to stay in the city with the knowledge that she was never going to see her favorite son again. But the red door that Joe talks about is the same, there is a small battered mailbox with <em>Mme. Al-Katibi </em>written on it, and there is nothing for Andy to do but raise her hand, swallow hard, wonder what on earth she is going to say, and knock.</p><p>For a long moment, there’s no answer. Andy wonders if Maryam is running errands, taking a nap during the heat of the day, or simply not inclined to answer the door for unexpected callers. Then she hears footsteps, a deadbolt shoots back, and it opens.</p><p>The woman on the other side looks about fifty-five or sixty in human years, which means – Andy doesn’t know, probably close to two thousand for a djinn. Her thick black hair is well streaked with silver, there are lines around her warm brown eyes, and she’s wearing a loose blouse and linen slacks, a golden necklace and earrings, her magical nature almost entirely indiscernible at first glance. But it’s still there, it rises up around her like the green-gold aura of her garden, a different and subtler and older kind of magic, but just as present and steadfast and comforting. Maryam looks at her without any recognition, since Andy has never actually met her in person. “Hello,” she says in English, as if searching for the appropriate lingua franca and guessing that this is best for a Western-looking person. “May I help you? Are you lost?”</p><p>“No.” Andy takes a deep breath, hoping she doesn’t cause this kindly-looking older woman some kind of heart failure. “My name is Andromache of Scythia. I know – I knew your son. Yusuf al-Kaysani.”</p><p>There’s a very long moment in which Maryam’s expression remains completely blank, almost bemused, as if she thinks Andy might be playing some kind of cruel joke. Then her expression crumples, her eyes fill with shocked tears, and she presses both hands to her mouth. <em>“Yusuf?”</em> Maryam croaks. “You know <em>Yusuf? </em>Is he alive? Did he send you? How did you find me?”</p><p>“It’s a long story.” Andy shuffles guiltily. She doesn’t want to invite herself in, but well, she <em>is </em>here now. “I’m happy to tell you, if you – ”</p><p>“Yes, yes. Come in.” Maryam’s plump hands are shaking, but she manages to beckon Andy over the threshold and into the cool, low-ceilinged apartment. The blinds are shut against the heat, and a fan whirls overhead, churning the still air and chasing a few flies in circles. The place is sparse and frugally furnished, the furniture worn and well-used. It doesn’t look as if anyone else lives here apart from Maryam, and Andy follows her cautiously into the kitchen. A copy of the Qur’an is open atop the lacy tablecloth, sitting next to a mug of tea; it looks like she’s interrupted Maryam from her study. She opens her mouth to apologize, but Maryam goes to the humming yellow fridge, opens it, and says, “I have juice, if you would like some.”</p><p>“It’s fine.” Andy was about to ask if she had anything stronger, but it’s unlikely to be kept in a devout Muslim home. Her temples are pounding, not just with thirst, but she can probably chase down some kind of alcohol at a later date. She waits as Maryam fetches down a glass and pours the juice, nodding in thanks as she takes it. “I’m sorry to burst in on you like this.”</p><p>“If you know my Yusuf – ” Maryam’s lips are trembling again, her eyes brimming with tears, all the pain that she has felt for centuries, a mother unable to see her beloved youngest son or learn anything about him, almost tangible in the air. “Please, please sit down.”</p><p>Andy does so, as Maryam rustles up a package of powdered date cookies and puts some on a plate for her, as if to be sure that she will have no chance to complain of inadequate hospitality. Finally she says, “That’s fine, I’m fine. I’m sure you want to know what I’m doing here.”</p><p>Maryam looks at her beseechingly. “Did Yusuf send you?”</p><p>“He…” Andy’s insides writhe with guilt. “He doesn’t actually know that I’m here. We became friends after… what happened in Jerusalem, with his exile and the Ring of Sulaiman and everything else. But he – I haven’t actually seen him since 1914, and it – it’s complicated.”</p><p>Maryam’s shoulders slump in disappointment. After a long pause she says, “Is he all right? Is he doing well? Does he have anyone? A partner, a family?”</p><p>“He – yes, he does. He married Nicolò di Genova, if you remember him. They have a daughter – she used to be a human, but they turned her together, she has both vampire and djinni blood. Nile Nesanet – well, she goes by Nile Freeman now, and – ”</p><p>Maryam’s face lights up. “Nicolò di Genova? The nice Italian boy? So I <em>was </em>right about them.”</p><p>“You were,” Andy says wryly. “And Nile – ”</p><p>“Yes, of course I remember her. She is my granddaughter now?” Maryam takes a tissue and wipes her eyes, then reaches out to clasp Andy’s hand. “That is a blessing indeed. Thank you, thank you. I always hoped, but I have never known, and I have tried, I have <em>tried </em>everything I can think of<em>. </em>If I ever see Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab, may Iblis take him, I will tear his head off myself.”</p><p>Andy struggles not to blink at the evident ferocity (and deep sincerity) in Maryam’s voice. “It’s funny you should say that,” she admits. “He’s actually the reason I’m here.”</p><p>And with that, more or less, it all comes spilling out. Not <em>everything – </em>Andy doesn’t want to overwhelm the woman – but the broad strokes of how she knows Yusuf and Nicolò, that they were close friends and worked together for many centuries, the loss of Quynh, and that Andy <em>wants</em> to find her way back to them, but just does not know how. Maryam’s face remains polite and attentive, but Andy can sense a distinct and not unwarranted judgment. Clearly Maryam thinks her very fortunate to have the option of returning to Joe and his family at all, and cannot understand her apparent cowardice in declining, when Maryam would give anything to see her son again after so long. Andy concludes with the plot to intercept Sa’id in Dubai, her fruitless efforts to make him find Quynh or lift Joe’s exile, and how she managed to winkle Maryam’s address out of him instead. Maryam’s lips go tighter than ever, and when Andy is finished, she is silent for a very long moment. Then she remarks, “Well. If nothing else, I must thank you for trying to restore Yusuf to his people, when you had Sa’id in your power. That he did not revoke the decree of banishment is his sin, and not yours. But if that did not succeed – ”</p><p>She stops again, rubbing her eyes, looking very old and tired and heartbroken, and neither woman says anything for several more minutes. The ceiling fan continues to whir, the fridge to hum, shouts and laughter echoing outside the window from a group of boys playing football in the alley. Then Andy says, not sure if she believes it herself, “I’ll find another way.”</p><p>“Will you?” Maryam looks at her wearily. “You and I have been trying for – how many hundreds of years, and still we are parted from our loved ones. What can I, a widow of a lesser lineage of the Banu Zawba’ah, do to challenge the High King of the Jinn? Perhaps I should count myself content with what family does remain to me, rather than dwelling endlessly on my loss. I would give anything to see my Yusuf again. But I have prayed to Allah every day for centuries that He would grant it, and whatever reason He has for stopping His ears to me, so it is. I had just managed to get myself to understand that, to cease living in expectation and accept that there was nothing left to be done. Then you come from nowhere and knock on my door, you say you know my son, you tell me of him, and I… I don’t know.”</p><p>Andy looks down at her half-finished glass of juice. She can hear the raw pain in Maryam’s voice, the fact that Andy <em>did </em>drop in out of the clear blue sky and upend her world, that while it is comforting to hear these details of Joe’s life, it is also deeply upsetting. It makes it feel like he is still right there, just around the corner, and it is Maryam’s own fault that she did not strive harder to reach him. That’s not true, of course, but Andy knows the feeling intimately, since it’s how she feels all the time about Quynh. Maryam has voiced the exact thought she’s been grappling with herself, that she should finally let go of the ghosts of lost loved ones and pay attention to the living ones still remaining. At last Andy says quietly, “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“No. No, do not be sorry.” Maryam shakes her head, almost angrily. “What else was I asking for all this time, if not something like this? Just because a prayer takes longer to be answered, it does not mean that the Almighty is deaf. I regret only that I was not with you in Dubai. I would slap Sa’id until my arm fell off, and then I would use the other to the same end.”</p><p>Andy doesn’t see any reason to doubt it, and the mental image of the debonair High King being beaten over the head by this gentle, grandmotherly-looking woman is worth it for that alone. There’s another pause. Then she says, <em>“Is </em>there any way we could challenge him? Your family – I don’t know what that situation is, but surely – ”</p><p>“My husband is dead.” Maryam glances down. “Umar passed away at the end of the nineteenth century, shortly after the French came to Tunisia. The irony being that we left Cairo in 1798, when Napoleon Bonaparte invaded Egypt, and then they followed us here. It had declined to the status of an insignificant frontier province under the Ottomans, who ruled from their glittering capital in Constantinople, but it was still our home, and I stayed there as long as I could, so that Yusuf would know where to find me if he ever came back. But Bonaparte’s magicians pillaged the djinni quarters of Cairo as well as his soldiers did the human ones, and we fled here, to the household of my sister-wife Aida and her children in Mahdia. Then my son Ismail was killed in the 1950s, during the struggle for Tunisia’s independence. So of my children, only my son Muhammad and my daughter Noor remain to me. Ismail is dead, Musa lost, and Yusuf exiled for eternity. Though I did think – but no. It is foolish. I cannot let myself.”</p><p>“What?” Andy urges, as if she hasn’t caused enough chaos in Maryam's life already. “Tell me. Maybe I can look into something for you. It’s the least I could do.”</p><p>Slowly, Maryam looks back at her. She seems to speak against her better judgment. “There are magical libraries and archives here,” she says. “There is a fine collection of old Arabic records in the Bardo National Museum – perhaps you heard what those ISIS terrorists did to it a few years ago, disgraceful. In this region, it is second only to the Egyptian Museum of Cairo. Some months ago, I went there, and I requested all the manuscripts that I could think of – there is a djinni curator and librarian, of whom the humans know nothing. I was trying to find a spell that would break Yusuf’s exile, but instead I stumbled upon a list of all the known djinni rings still extant in the world. There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. But one – ”</p><p>She stops, twisting her hands together. Then she says, “Call it a silly wish, a mother’s fruitless hope. But there was one entry in the catalogue, for a magical ring that used to belong to King Baldwin of Jerusalem, that – I had a strange hunch, I couldn’t shake it. Besides, I thought, it would not be a <em>ring, </em>not when my son Musa was originally confined in a <em>lamp. </em>But a magician can transfer an enslaved djinn from one vessel to another, as a guard against the original breaking or wearing out. It would mean that all this time, we have been looking in the wrong places. If we were searching for a lamp, and instead he is now bound to a <em>ring – </em>”</p><p>Andy’s stomach does an odd flip. She searches the dusty recesses of her memory – she does remember Baldwin and his ring, the confrontation in the throne room, the strange sense that the trapped djinn’s voice was familiar, even though she had never heard it before. What did Wahdeliadj say about it? <em>I promise, King Baldwin, so long as you wear that magical ring of your own, I will be compelled to return to you again. Does it please you? The djinn contained within it is of a particularly powerful family, and one that could stand humbling.</em> Quite obviously, the captain of the Night Riders would have a bone to pick with the al-Kaysanis, especially since Yusuf and company were actively preventing King Barqan from getting his hands on the Ring of Solomon. Jesus. Was <em>that – </em>? And all this time, none of them had any idea?</p><p>Maryam can see the look on Andy’s face. She frowns. “What? What?”</p><p>“I might…” Andy’s throat is dry. “I can’t be sure, but that does make me think of something. Did the listing happen to say where this ring was currently located?” It’s almost too much to hope for, but –</p><p>“Indeed.” Maryam’s mouth twists. “It was purchased in the early eighteenth century by an eccentric private collector from Surrey and donated, with the rest of his estate, at his death in 1875. And that means that even if it was my son, and not just some desperate phantom of my imagination, I could not get it anyway. It is, if the registry is to be trusted, in London. At none other than that temple of thieves itself, the British Museum.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicky puts Joe and Nile in an Uber to Heathrow the next afternoon with no small amount of trepidation. None of them trust anything about this to start with, his airplane-hating husband is stuck with two extra seven-hour flights in less than a week, there’s the looming question of whether Sa’id is setting up a nasty surprise, Nile has seemed especially upset for some reason she won’t tell them about, and while Nicky will certainly be occupied in London until (if?) they get back, there’s no guarantee as to what that will look like. He hugs both of them hard, kisses Joe several times, and to his annoyance, finds himself clinging. “Have fun,” he orders them, as if this was actually anyone’s idea. If there’s any feeling more depressing then having to watch someone you love dearly get on a plane and travel far away with no certainty as to when you’re going to see them again, Nicky doesn’t want to hear about it. “Don’t do anything stupid.”</p><p>“Mmm.” Joe kisses him again, and Nicky can feel the trembling in his fingers where they catch his own. “No wild parties without me, Nicolò.”</p><p>“I doubt you have to worry about that.” Nicky forces a false-sounding laugh, kisses Joe one more time as the Uber driver honks impatiently, and looks at Nile. “Can we talk when you get back? I just want to know that you’re all right.”</p><p>Nile gives him a searching look, as if begging him to understand something, but Nicky – while he tries to be a patient and understanding father – can’t read her mind, and he’s frustrated at her apparent disinclination to tell him anything. He’s never been a controlling ogre, he’s never been overbearing, he let their relationship develop at her pace, and while this might be a common parental struggle, when you wish your kids would just <em>talk </em>to you, it doesn’t stop it from stinging. Then as Joe hoists their suitcases and heads out, Nile throws her arms around Nicky’s neck and hugs him again. “Please, please be careful,” she begs. “You have to know that – ”</p><p>Once more, she makes that strange choking sound and cuts herself off, and Nicky frowns at her. For the first time, something makes him wonder if Nile’s current evasiveness is entirely her fault. He can’t think why it wouldn’t be, but it nags at him anyway. They look at each other. Nile seems to be on the brink of outright tears, which is confusing; she’s never made this much of a fuss at any of their partings before. Then she says, “I love you, Dad. You know that, right?”</p><p>“Of course.” Whatever other feelings he might have on this situation, Nicky is touched. “I love you too. Look after your father for me, won’t you? When does the flight leave?”</p><p>“Eight-thirty PM. We get in at eight-thirty AM tomorrow morning, Tashkent time.” Nile pauses. “I’m sure we’ll text you and let you know how it’s going.”</p><p>“You’d better.” At yet another irritated honk from the driver (he is going to rate this guy zero stars, see if he doesn’t), Nicky steps back. “I’ll do the same. Fly safe.”</p><p>Nile nods, then hurries outside and climbs into the Uber, shutting the door. Nicky watches through the front window as it pulls away, vanishing down the busy street, until he can be sure that nobody has forgotten their backpack this time and will not be returning for that or any other reason. Then he takes Nile’s apartment key out of his pocket – he will be staying at her place while she’s gone, since he and Joe were scheduled to check out of the hotel anyway, and he doesn’t want Booker to be able to go back and report their exact location to Sa’id – shakes himself, and heads upstairs.</p><p>He unlocks the flat door and steps inside – then stops dead and takes a deep whiff, looking around sharply. He has no idea why, but this place reeks of vampire. <em>Strange </em>vampire, not Nile herself, and not him. And since she assured them that her life in London is entirely supernatural-free, either that is an outright lie – which doesn’t seem like her, but a lot of things aren’t making sense recently – or there’s <em>another </em>dimension of this situation which has managed to escape Nicky’s notice. He’s a millennium old, hardly the village idiot, so this is embarrassing.</p><p>He hunts around the apartment, tense and expectant, opening closets and cupboards as if there’s a bogeyman lurking under the sink. Nothing. He could text Nile before she even gets to the airport and demand an explanation, but it seems obvious that for one reason or another, she can’t or won’t give one. Nicky stands in the living room, stymied and suspicious, trying to think why the scent is just that bit familiar. Like something he knew long ago but lost, something that pulls at some long-buried ancestral part of him. There are a lot of vampires in the world, though not as many as you might think, but he doesn’t know them, so he wouldn’t know this.</p><p>Nicky utters a low growl in his throat, can feel his fangs pressing against his lower lip, and pulls them back. There is no obvious enemy or reason to fight, and if he starts going off the handle now, it will be a very long seventy-two hours (that’s all, that’s <em>all – </em>apart from travel time) until Joe and Nile get back. In the meantime, he needs to find that place in Covent Garden that Nile told him about, where he can buy some Red. Nicky normally feeds on Joe, which adds an enjoyable dimension to their lovemaking, and if worse comes to worse, he can make it a week until his mate gets back. But he’s gotten used to not being hungry all the time, and he <em>is </em>curious about the newfangled world of vampire nutrition drinks. It’s better than standing here and fretting, at any rate. It could (he doesn’t know how, but it <em>could</em>) be a total coincidence.</p><p>Nicky leaves the apartment, decides to walk to Covent Garden since it’s a nice day and it’s less than a mile away, and enters the precincts of the covered market, busy with the last of the weekend traffic. It takes him a few circuits, but he finally finds a stall in a back corner manned by a pasty young man in a tracksuit, who looks to be about twenty-five and has a strong Cockney accent. Unsure whether this is the droid he is looking for, Nicky approaches with caution. At closer range, he can smell that yes, this man is a vampire, older than he looks – Nicky guesses Victorian – and his attention has been piqued by the sight of a strange and powerful newcomer on London turf. As Nicky comes to a halt before the stand, the other vampire says, not in a particularly friendly voice, “Never seen you around before, mate.”</p><p>Nicky inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth, reminds himself that this is why everyone hates the British, and puts on a winning smile. “You will probably know my daughter,” he says. “She has shopped here often. Nile Freeman.”</p><p>The other vampire utters a noncommittal grunt, but there’s a certain curiosity in his eye as he considers Nicky, who is a rather unexpected sire for Nile in any number of ways. He can doubtless sense that Nicky is old enough and therefore strong enough that he shouldn’t be too impertinent, the sensitive tectonics of age and blood and status that govern all vampire interactions, which is why Nicky has so often found his own kind to be so exhausting. “Apologies,” he says, after another pause. “What can I do you for, guvnor?”</p><p>“Six-pack of Red,” Nicky says. “If you’d be so kind.”</p><p>“What’s that accent from?” The young (well, at least compared to Nicky) vampire squints at him. If this fool is a Brexit voter and feels inclined to publicize that fact, even Nicky might have difficulty in not literally biting his head off. “Bloody foreigners turning up here and – ”</p><p>“Italy,” Nicky says, louder. “Red. Now, please.”</p><p>The vampire sighs, turns away, and commences rummaging in the shelves. As he brings the plastic-yoked cans over to the counter and Nicky digs in his pocket, the vampire says, “Thought you might be like that terrifying old bird who turned up here the other day. She mentioned your daughter too, by the way. Asked for her by name. Didn’t want to cross <em>her, </em>don’t mind saying.”</p><p>Nicky almost drops his wallet. <em>“What?” </em>He restrains a sudden urge to vault the counter, seize this miserable wastrel by the collar, and shake him until his fangs rattle. “What do you mean – was this another vampire? Asking for Nile by <em>na</em> – what did you tell her?”</p><p>“I don’t know where she lives, do I? I’m not her bloody secretary!” As if sensing this upsurge of homicidal intent, the vampire – there’s an envelope next to the cash register addressed to George Becker, so that’s probably his name – takes a sharp step backward. “I said I couldn’t help. Jesus Christ, mate, will you stop looking at me like that?”</p><p>With an extreme effort of will, Nicky stops looking however he currently does (viz., deeply alarming) and fixes George with a ferocious glare. “This woman,” he says, breathing hard and trying to calm himself down. “This vampire. What was she like?”</p><p>“Terrifying.” That is apparently the key point that stuck in George’s mind. “Some other funny accent. Carried herself like the bloody Queen, she did. She asked if Nile Freeman lived nearby, she wanted to see her. I’m not the type to grass, I said nuffink.”</p><p>“All right.” Whether this was the same vampire who was in Nile’s flat, with or without her knowledge, Nicky can’t be sure, but it seems likely. “Did she say where she was from, or why she might be interested in Nile, or anything like that?”</p><p>“She said she’d come to London from the north.” George wrinkles his nose; like most lifelong residents of the City, the north of England might as well be another planet. “From somewhere in Northumberland, I think it was. Anyway, she got a bit peeved when I said as I didn’t know. Threatened me that if I couldn’t be useful that way, I’d be useful some way else. But eventually she went off, and I don’t mind saying, I’d be that happy if she didn’t come back.”</p><p>“Thanks.” Nicky’s mind is whirling. So there’s a strange female vampire in London looking for Nile, and not a particularly benevolent-sounding one. “Where in Northumberland?”</p><p>George screws up his face, thinking hard. “Setton? Seatown? Sounded impressive, bit French. She could have been French too, come to think. She said she was in London because her son had been killed, and she was asking if I’d heard anything about any vampire murders.”</p><p>“Vampire <em>murders?” </em>Nicky rears back. This is, to say the least, a nasty surprise, since this is also the first he is hearing of it. “And had you?”</p><p>“Look, guvnor, there’re always rumors, aren’t there?” George punches the six-pack into the cash register (it is £16.99, because London is a ridiculous place; Nicky’s willing to bet it costs a tenner and change in the rest of the country) and looks at him challengingly. “I know most of the vampires who shop around here – those who drink Red, that is – and it’s none of <em>my </em>clients who’ve disappeared. If there was one of us who got snuffed, they liked things the old-fashioned way, and you take my meaning. A fewer of those around doesn’t hurt nobody none.”</p><p>Nicky takes this in. If he’s following George (which he’s not sure that he is), the implication is that any vampire in London who might have met an unexplained end is an old-school blood drinker, the kind who preys on hapless humans and gives rise to Jack the Ripper stories. George, not without reason, evidently thinks that any of <em>those </em>lot getting taken out is just fine, and Nicky can’t entirely disagree. Why on earth would this strange French-queen vampire think that the death of her son had anything to do with Nile, though? Just going down the list of locals to see if anybody had heard anything? He’s utterly bewildered, considerably alarmed, and more at a loss than ever. He pulls a twenty-pound note out of his wallet and pays for the Red, George counts back three £1 coins and a penny, and Nicky accepts it distractedly. “Thanks,” he says, since credit where credit is due. “You’ve been very helpful.”</p><p>George looks at him slightly squiggle-eyed, but nods, and even graciously pops the six-pack in a plastic bag and does not charge Nicky 5p for it. Once he’s making his way out of Covent Garden and the thinning crowds, Nicky mulls his options. He’s supposed to have coffee with Dr. Kozak sometime in the next few days – whatever she wants with him, he still can’t be sure – but that hasn’t been officially scheduled, and he clearly has the need to do some more research of his own in the meantime. He’s at least gratified for the confirmation that he wasn’t making it up, there <em>was </em>somebody in Nile’s apartment, and she may be up to no good. If her son was an unregenerate blood-drinker, she might be the same. Nicky has to be careful. He can outclass most vampires that he meets, but he’s never actually had to do it very much.</p><p>He gets back to Nile’s flat, takes a deep whiff to make sure that it hasn’t been broken into again while he was out, and sets the bag down on the kitchen table. He cracks a can of Red and takes a sip, swirling it around his mouth experimentally. It’s… not bad, though in Nicky’s biased opinion, a handsome djinni husband is still obviously and vastly superior. He fetches his computer, opens a browser window, and tries to think what to search for. George said that this newcomer arrived from somewhere in Northumberland called something like Setton, that sounded vaguely French. This might be another of the occasions where Nicky’s distance from the vampire world is biting him in the butt, if there’s an obvious explanation or distinguished vampire family from the area, but he will have to do it the hard way.</p><p>Nicky goes to Google Maps, zooms in on Northumberland, and starts to scroll and pan through every tiny rinkidink hamlet. He gets very involved in this project, and jumps when his phone buzzes with a text from Joe, announcing that they’re at the gate and the flight seems to be on time. Nicky sends back a lot of hearts and orders them to keep him posted, and wonders if he should say anything about his current occupation, or if they’d panic and rush back. No point jumping to conclusions, though. Not until he knows what in damnation is going on here.</p><p>At last, causing him to let out a hoarse cry of triumph, Nicky thinks he might have it. A quick visit to Wikipedia later, he is almost sure. The tiny village of Seaton Delaval, population five thousand, lies just north of Newcastle, and is an old Northumberland coal-mining town; in fact, it’s mentioned in the folk song “Blackleg Miner” as a place that doesn’t take kindly to strike-breaking scabs. Its ancient baronial family was founded by the Delavals of France soon after the Battle of Hastings, and the name and title died out a few times over the centuries, but was eventually readopted by various branches of cousins. The eighteenth-century Delavals were apparently a colorful bunch, and their sprawling pile of a country house, Seaton Delaval Hall, has had a dark history. It was extensively damaged by fire in 1822 and never entirely renovated, eventually abandoned by the family and handed over to the National Trust, allegedly haunted, and otherwise something of a huge old derelict money-sucking pile. As far as criteria go – Northumberland, “Setton,” French, slightly spooky – this sounds right.</p><p>Nicky stares at the screen, then makes an executive decision. He goes to Trainline and buys an exorbitantly overpriced last-minute ticket, King’s Cross to Newcastle, on the LNER service leaving forty-five minutes from now. He glances at the time; Joe and Nile should be about to board, so hopefully they get his text before they go incommunicado. He sends a message informing them that he’s taking a quick trip to Newcastle, nothing to be concerned about, but bears watching. Then he gets up, throws a few things into his backpack, and hustles out.</p><p>Walking at vampiric speed (which, to be fair, is not always that much faster than regular gay people) gets Nicky to King’s Cross with twenty minutes to spare, as he checks the departure boards and sees that the Newcastle service (final destination Edinburgh) is boarding on platform 2. He retrieves his tickets from a kiosk, feeds them to the almighty barrier gods, and is permitted entrance, trotting briskly along to the quiet coach, B, and stepping aboard. Since it’s late on Sunday evening, the service is mostly empty, and he claims two seats. It’s a ride of three and a half hours to Newcastle, so he should arrive shortly before midnight. That seems ominous. What he does next – well, he’ll decide that when he gets there.</p><p>Nicky checks his phone to see a response from Nile; she says that they’re on board the plane and are about to turn their phones off, so they’re going dark for at least the next eight hours. He’s glad they know that he’s leaving London, though if something does go pear-shaped, it’s not like there’s much they can do about it. The screen pings again – it’s a worried message from Joe, <em>What’s in Newcastle?? – </em>and as Nicky is trying to think how to answer, the service pulls out, enters the tunnel outside King’s Cross, and he promptly loses his mobile signal. Of course this is the one time LNER decides to run on schedule (it was Virgin Trains until about a week ago, but they went belly-up, so the government’s taking over the East Coast Main Line). Terrific.</p><p>By the time they’re whirring along the tracks en route to their first stop in Stevenage and Nicky’s roaming data is back, his message (which is essentially <em>I don’t know but I’ll tell you when I find out) </em>sports only the dreaded single checkmark of “sent but not received.” Joe and Nile are officially out of touch until tomorrow morning, and even though that was the case before, it sends a chill through him. God, this is strange, and he doesn’t like it. It’s not like he can’t function without his significant other, but he and Joe have been together for centuries, and only incidentally apart during that time. The fact that neither of them now have any other family has doubtless played into it – they have each other and Nile, and for a while, they had Andy and Quynh too. But then that ended. Nicky misses Andy. He understands why she felt like she had to run away, but he thought it would only be temporary. A hundred and four years of “temporary” later, he’s forced to admit that he may have been wrong. Time takes everything.</p><p>He leans back, trying to relax, to focus his mind, to come up with a clear plan. A lot of it hangs on whether this strange French vampire is actually there, or still skulking around in London (and whether she’ll notice if Nicky turns up on her territory uninvited). If he <em>is </em>about to walk into a heavyweight supernatural throwdown, he would like to have <em>some </em>warning. Nicky is a gentle soul by nature, but if this woman has hurt Nile, or intends to hurt her, all bets are off. While he doesn’t <em>love </em>killing, he does it when he needs to.</p><p>The countryside blurs by under the dark blue sky, punctuated occasionally by the bright lights of stations. The train wasn’t full to start with, and empties steadily as they roll northward. Finally they reach Durham, which is the last stop before Newcastle, and in another fifteen minutes, they pull into the station. Nicky gets up with the other two people in the carriage and exits onto the platform. There are a few drunken rowdies – Geordies like to have a good time no matter the occasion or indeed the weather, since they’re usually the ones featured in <em>Metro </em>for going out in snowstorms with no pants on – but he easily evades them and makes his way out.</p><p>Outside, it’s late enough that the local bus service isn’t running and there isn’t anyone parked at the cab rank. According to Nicky’s phone, it’s eight miles to Seaton Delaval and eleven to Delaval Hall, which sits on the outskirts of the village. He is just wondering if he should likewise order an Uber when he catches himself in disgust. He is a <em>vampire, </em>for God’s sake. He can run eleven miles without breaking a sweat. Might do him good to remember how.</p><p>Nicky glances around, makes sure that nobody is paying attention to him, and cops a good pace out of the station and onto the A189. Once he’s mostly beyond the city limits, he picks up the pace, the night wind blowing against his face. He can feel the peculiar echoing emptiness of northern England to every side, the sense of great wide-open <em>space, </em>the way the countryside keeps on sprawling all the way up to the distant fells of Scotland with barely an interruption or a human to be seen. The wind smells like the North Sea; Delaval Hall lies almost in sight of it, a mile from the shore. The ambiance of deserted old Gothic structures on the high northeast coast of England makes Nicky think ineluctably of Whitby Abbey, often held to be Bram Stoker’s inspiration for <em>Dracula. </em>He chuckles darkly to himself at the fact of a vampire (a gay vampire, no less) motoring along out here now. Seems like Stoker would approve.</p><p>It’s almost the stroke of midnight, which feels a little too on the nose, when Nicky gallops up the drive and beholds Delaval Hall in all its dramatic-Jacobean-pile baroque glory. It certainly looks the part: a central house, handsomely columned, with covered cloisters leading to large east and west wings, all built in grey stone and grown with moss. It is dark and empty, at least to all appearances, but Nicky slows up sharply and approaches with great caution. The last thing he needs is to get overconfident and rush into an obvious trap. He can’t say why he’s certain that the vampire is here, rather than at any other address in Seaton Delaval, but he just is.</p><p>The dewed grass is slick under his feet as he crosses the central courtyard, every sense on high alert. The moon is rising, though he doesn’t need it or a flashlight to see. He’s just waiting for bats to burst off the roof somewhere, just to add the final touch to the whole thing, but it remains eerily still. With a silent apology to the National Trust for breaking into a venerable old listed property at arse o’clock at night, Nicky advances to the front door of the main house, waits for several moments, then cracks the lock and pushes it very slowly open.</p><p>He can’t smell anyone immediately present and about to leap out at him, but there’s definitely a familiar scent, the same as the one in Nile’s apartment. Evidently George Becker was telling the truth, and his unpleasant visitor <em>was</em> the same vampire who’s made a base of operations here. Nicky eases inside, glancing around as if his head is on a pivot. The floor is checked black-and-white marble, and stucco statues stand in wall niches overhead. Just to add that extra bit of creepiness, their faces have either worn off, are still black with soot from the fire, or broken away completely. A balcony with an ornate iron railing stands above the door, and rises into the exposed brick of the bare vaults. Starlight filters in through the glassless windows and the scaffolding of the reconstructed roof. Nicky’s footsteps make no sound. He is the only soul here, human or creature.</p><p>He starts to walk, following a winding corridor deeper into the dark house. It doesn’t look like he’s supposed to be in here, or indeed that anyone is, since there are tarpaulins and tools and evidence of ever-present renovations, which every old building in England needs constantly and there is never enough money to actually complete. Nicky steps over a ladder and into the empty west wing, feeling like Belle about to stumble on the Beast. Furniture has been draped in white sheets, waiting to be removed, looking ever more like a company of ghosts. Nicky is a supernatural creature himself, but even he is a little spooked. He wonders if he should make a noise, or if that is an obviously stupid move. He doesn’t know what else he might wake up.</p><p>Up ahead, the scent grows stronger, and Nicky follows it through a door – there’s another lock on this one, but he dispenses of it with little effort – and into an inner room. At once, his skin prickles with the awareness that he’s definitely trespassing, he has entered another vampire’s private sanctum uninvited, and if she <em>should </em>arrive suddenly, she would be justified in taking violent measures to remove him. There’s a bed, a dresser, a few books, and the unmistakable coppery scent of blood, both fresh and dried. Jesus, why does this seem so… familiar?</p><p>Nicky shakes his head hard, and glances around. It looks as if this is a temporary base, a short-term stay, rather than somewhere she’s been for a long time, and he wonders why she picked it – some distant connection with the original Delavals, perhaps? Or just a conveniently spooky place to hang out away from humans? Fighting the voice in his head that would like to inform him how rude he is being by snooping like this, Nicky crosses to the dresser. There’s a large old golden locket lying atop it, and after the usual debate of “don’t touch the strange and possibly dangerous magical item” takes place in his head and Nicky loses to himself, he reaches out, passing his fingers warily over the air above it. He’s not a witch or a djinn, he doesn’t have innate magic of his own, but he can usually sense its presence. He <em>thinks</em> it’s just a locket. If Voldemort’s soul comes hissing out, he’ll deal with that later.</p><p>Nicky carefully picks it up. The metal is cool and smooth in his hand, pleasingly heavy, and his thumb finds a seam on the side, which he clicks open. Inside, there’s a portrait miniature of a dark and dashing young man who looks nineteenth-century Spaniard, though Nicky can’t be sure. The name, in elegant old-fashioned cursive, is <em>Don Diego de la Vega.</em></p><p>That sounds familiar for some reason, though Nicky can’t bring it to mind. He wonders if this is the vampire’s son, the one who supposedly died in London, and he feels a brief pang of sympathy. The man’s eyes are kind, and despite himself, Nicky can’t quite believe (so much as absolutely anything can be judged from a portrait about the moral character of its subject) that this was a ruthless blood-drinking monster who deserved what he got. Nicky’s already taking a risk by leaving his own scent all over these clearly private items, and he shuts the locket quickly, putting it back on the dresser. As he does, he jostles something else, which falls to the floor with a clatter. A photograph. A Polaroid. And as he picks it up –</p><p>A wrenching shock goes through Nicky from head to toe. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the sight of himself, the last time he and Joe were in London; the handwritten date on the back of the photo is <em>1985. </em>He’s looking relaxed, sitting on the edge of the fountain in Trafalgar Square and looking up at the National Gallery, clearly with no idea that he’s being photographed. Did the vampire take this herself, or steal it from someone? Why does she have a picture of <em>him? </em>How long has she been watching him? Is that why she decided to target Nile, or – or what? Nothing makes <em>sense. </em>He feels like he’s in a dream or a nightmare from which he can’t wake, and everything is crumbling as he tries to reach for it. Nobody can say that this impromptu midnight journey has not been enlightening, but only to leave him in a sucking morass of even more questions. Maybe he shouldn’t have come.</p><p>Nicky drops the photo back onto the dresser as if it’s burned him, wonders if there’s any point trying to make it look as if he hasn’t broken in, and beats feet to the door, emerging into the main house and practically running to the exit. He reaches the cool, moonlit grass of the courtyard and doesn’t stop, even though he has no idea what he’s fleeing from. It’s not like he has any reason to rush back to the station. The first service to London won’t leave until five AM, and even he might get tired of hanging out with drunken Geordies in the wee hours. He <em>could </em>run the length of the entire country, which is briefly tempting inasmuch as it would put rapid distance between himself and Delaval Hall. But (so far as he knows) the strange French vampire is still in London, might even be at Nile’s place right now, and –</p><p>At that moment, Nicky has a thought. It’s so impossible and shocking that it doesn’t compute and fades away before he can grasp at it, but it’s there. Once it’s gone, he doesn’t remember what it was, only that he has been left more profoundly unsettled than ever. Either way, he needs to move, he doesn’t think he can sit still, and it’s been a long time since he got to flex his full vampiric skills, the same way Joe is chafing at the bit since he’s not allowed to be a proper djinn. Nicky can run for a while and get a train further south if he feels like it. Or – something.</p><p>The dark dales spread out to every side. Newcastle glows in the distance, bisected by the black ribbon of the River Tyne. Nicky looks at his phone by reflex. He has no bars, and Joe and Nile won’t be landing in Tashkent for a few more hours anyway. He’s standing in the middle of nowhere and he has no way of talking to them, no idea what to do. He just has to get out of here. Get back to London. Call Dr. Kozak and set up coffee, just because he <em>really </em>wants some more answers. As for the rest –</p><p>No. No. He knows it’s not. He’s known it’s not for a thousand years. No time to go forgetting that now. Or anything else.</p><p>Nicky lowers his head, wonders why it feels inexplicably as if he’s about to cry, and starts to run.</p><p>***</p><p>Joe doesn’t sleep on the plane. He would find it hard to relax in the ordinary course of things, and since Nicky’s not here, it’s downright impossible. Nile dozes intermittently, as the cabin lights are switched off once they reach cruising altitude and most of the passengers put on sleep masks and pull out travel pillows, but Joe remains staring out the window, the glittering night passing by far below. He still isn’t sure that he hasn’t made a horrible mistake by agreeing to go to Tashkent at all, and his mind is in overdrive about what on earth can possibly await them. Booker seems to think that it counted as a good-faith gesture, some promise that Sa’id would actually keep his end of the bargain if they perform this service for him – but it has always been about <em>performing services </em>for Sa’id, and quite obviously, the last one ended with Joe’s permanent banishment. At least you’d think that there was nowhere to go but up, but he isn’t so sure. This has to be a coded message, a subtle nudge about the Ring, doesn’t it? Joe doesn’t have any idea why Sa’id, after going to such lengths to nullify or destroy it, would want it found, but as well proven, it’s been nine hundred goddamn years since he knew anything about anyone. The old Sa’id wouldn’t come near humans, and now he’s made his fortune on them.</p><p>Joe leans back in the business-class seat (he will grudgingly thank whoever purchased the plane tickets for not consigning them to a seven-hour flight in cattle-car economy, and this is certainly an upgrade on easyJet), trying not to worry too much about Nicky’s mysterious last-minute errand to Newcastle. What, does Merrick have a secret evil laboratory in the North East or something? Obviously Nicky was supposed to perform reconnaissance of some kind, but this all seems rather… sudden. Not that Joe has any clue what counts as sudden. He misses his husband and he’s in a bad mood about all this mystery anyway. Would it have killed Sebastien le Livre, since apparently nothing else has, to give him <em>one </em>further clue? He said he didn’t know, but –</p><p>Joe stares at the ceiling with its air vents and flight attendant call button and oxygen mask compartment and other riveting features, looks back out the window, experiences a moment of brief and total dislocation from his body, and must somehow drift off after all, because when he blinks again, there is pale light on his face and they’re descending through layers of translucent orange clouds, toward the grey sprawl tucked into the sere highlands of Central Asia. Once upon a time, Tashkent was the fourth-largest city in the Soviet Union, trailing only Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Kiev, and it has a long and ancient history that stretches all the way back to the fifth century B.C. But it was destroyed once in the Russian revolution in 1917 and then again by a devastating earthquake in 1966, which wiped out most of its ancient treasures, and subsequently rebuilt as a model Soviet city. The last time Joe was in the region was around – he struggles to think – God, he can’t even remember. They’ve mostly steered clear of it after the events in the Tian Shan, just in case. He’s not ignorant of the plight of the Uyghur Muslims in Ürümqi, western China, though that’s a whole other can of worms. He and Nicky can’t single-handedly fix every wrong in the world, but Joe struggles with the feeling that he could have, he <em>should </em>have done more, if he wasn’t selfishly worried about losing the last scraps of his magic. If it went entirely and didn’t come back – he doesn’t know what he’d do.</p><p>He glances at Nile in the aisle seat. Her eyes are still closed, her head slumped to the side, and he looks at her for a long moment, the way any parent feels an instinctive pang of tenderness when watching a child sleep. He’s glad that he didn’t have to do this totally alone, though if she ends up in any kind of danger, he will add that doubly to Sa’id’s account. Maybe they can talk and he can try to sort out what’s bothering her. They’re a lot alike, and he hopes she’ll trust him to listen.</p><p>The cabin light switch on, the flight attendant comes over the tannoy to tri-lingually inform them, in Uzbek, Russian, and English, to prepare for arrival, and then they’re swooping down onto the runway, which they hit with a bump. Joe has heard that customs at this place can often take forever, and he wonders if they’re expected to stand in a queue for hours. They both have Maltese passports, which means (he checked) that as EU citizens, they can enter for 30 days without a visa. Booker said that someone was going to meet them here, but when? Where?</p><p>Nile wakes up, blinks and sees that they’ve arrived, and they both switch on their phones the instant that they’re allowed, only to see that whatever roaming plan they’re on, Uzbekistan is not included. They’ll have to buy SIM cards somewhere, which should be simple enough, but this further delay in communication with Nicky causes Joe more anxiety. They’ll also have to find somewhere to change money. The Uzbek currency is massively inflated; one pound sterling is something like thirteen thousand so’m, and all the bills are issued in absurdly high denominations. The largest size currently available is the 50,000, which means you need big rolls of cash to purchase things, and the helpful travel advice Joe read on the Internet says that foreign credit and debit cards usually aren’t accepted. Since the country is developing its tourism industry, they could probably squeak by in Tashkent if they had to, but it feels only fair that Sa’id, he of the multibillion-dollar fortune, covers their expenses. Maybe Joe can send a strongly worded letter. He’s already threatened to sue him into oblivion, this is just the next step.</p><p>He waits until the plane has come to a complete stop at the gate like a good boy, then unbuckles and stands up. They finally step off onto the jet bridge, and Joe is hit by a blast of hot, dry air – which, after the lukewarm so-called English summer, makes his heart twist. Unsure what to expect, he and Nile stick close together, dutifully following the international arrivals signs with the other people off their flight. There doesn’t seem to be any option but to join them. Standing in a queue it is. They would enjoy this a lot more if they were actually British.</p><p>That takes a while, but once the unsmiling khaki-shirted border police have finally inspected their passports and stamped them into the country, Joe and Nile pick up their bags from the carousel and look around for anything resembling a place to buy a SIM card. They spot a kiosk for something called Tez Wifi, whereupon the polite young English-speaking attendant informs them that SIM cards and mobile routers have to be requested 24 hours in advance of the pickup date, but if they need one urgently, she can have one sent to their Tashkent-area hotel this afternoon. If they provide the address, she’ll be happy to arrange it.</p><p>Since Joe and Nile obviously have no blessed clue where they’re going, that option is out, and Joe thanks her (through his teeth, but this is not her fault) and leads the way into the ground transportation terminal with a slight urge to scream. As they look around in search of any kind of help, he catches sight of a Eurasian man in a dark suit holding up a sign that reads MR JOSEPH ALKAYSANI. It’s copied beneath in Cyrillic: Г-Н ДЖОЗЕФ АЛКАЙСАНИ.</p><p>Joe and Nile look at each other, decide that this must be it, and cautiously advance. “Hello,” Joe says warily, after that usual mental roulette to figure out which language would be most useful in this situation. He doesn’t speak Uzbek at all, but his Russian is passable, though English is (rants on linguistic imperialism aside) usually the option of first resort. “I’m Mr. al-Kaysani.”</p><p>“Welcome to Uzbekistan, welcome.” The man shakes his hand warmly, then turns to Nile and does the same. “My name is Rustam, I work for Mr. Sa’id al-Maḏhab. He has given instructions that your welcome is to be made as comfortable as possible. I hope your flight was nice? If you wish to follow me, I will take you to your hotel.”</p><p>Joe and Nile glance at each other, hoist their bags, and trail after him through the busy curbside drop-off area, as jets roar overhead and cars honk and buses jostle in the manner of airports the world over, to a black Land Rover. Rustam helpfully puts their bags into the boot and gets the door for them, and they climb into the back seat. Joe isn’t sure what to make of all this. Rustam himself seems nice enough, and for that matter, thoroughly human, with no idea of the true identity of his big-time employer. Sa’id giving instructions that their welcome is to be warm also doesn’t manage to come off as entirely comforting. Either he’s really concerned about whatever Merrick Pharmaceuticals is up to, and willing to make nice with his former lover-turned-bête noire to find out, or he’s playing some other game that Joe can’t be arsed to guess. He’s lost too much of his life to Sa’id’s manipulations and delusions of grandeur, and either they’ll tell him what he’s doing on this trip, or they won’t. Aside from that, he doesn’t have an opinion.</p><p>Rustam climbs behind the wheel, starts the car, and steers through the usual maze of airport parking barriers and confusing side roads that Joe’s glad he doesn’t have to figure out. Then they accelerate into busy midmorning traffic, heading downtown into a bustling modern metropolis sporting a cluster of newly built high rises, square Soviet government buildings and Communist-era residential blocs, blue mosque domes and golden church spires, drab office parks, construction cranes, green parks, wide boulevards, bazaars and cafés. Despite his deep resentment at being dragged here in the first place, Joe isn’t immune to the lure of wanting to explore someplace new. The jet lag will hit soon, but for now he feels all right.</p><p>Their progress slows to a crawl as they hit the congested central business district, and Joe spaces out, watching pedestrians hurry by on the sidewalk and dart between buses and bicycles and tram cars with scant regard for personal safety. They finally get moving again, and turn up in front of a palatial white hotel: the Hyatt Regency Tashkent, surrounded by squares of manicured green lawn, broad steps lined in path lights, slender trees, and silver sculptures. Rustam pulls in under the portico as an eager uniformed concierge bounces out, and speaks to him for a few moments in Uzbek. Joe and Nile climb wearily out of the car, hauling their bags, as Rustam turns to them. “You are expected. I have arranged that you can check in early. It is a few hours for you to rest and eat, and then I will come back again this afternoon.”</p><p>“Wait,” Joe says, as Rustam’s about to get back into the Land Rover. “We would like SIM cards right away. And what about money? Is this going to – ”</p><p>“Please order whatever you like,” Rustam says. “Mr. al-Maḏhab is paying for everything. I will try to bring you phone cards when I return, it is at two o’clock PM that I will be here. Okay, is there any other questions I answer for you?”</p><p>Joe has about a thousand, but he suspects that they aren’t anything Rustam would know about. So he thanks him with as much grace as he can presently muster, and he and Nile allow the concierge to shepherd them inside. The front foyer is marble and porcelain, very glam, and everything is sparklingly new and luxurious. They’re issued with card keys and told that their suite is on the seventh floor. As for food, they can order room service, or savor a traditional Tashkent tea and pastry at the Chai Lounge. Everyone hopes they enjoy their stay.</p><p>“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Nile asks, as they finally reach the seventh floor and trudge down to the correct door. “It’s nice that they’re rolling out the red carpet, but…”</p><p>“But that means we’re both wondering when the other shoe drops.” Joe swipes the key and pushes into the suite. It has two bedrooms, a sitting area, a kitchenette, an enormous bathroom, and all the usual five-star hotel bells and whistles, but he would trade them all for one damn functional mobile phone. There’s a phone on the nightstand, but he somehow doubts that long-distance calls to the UK, on a Maltese number, are able to be made on it. “Sa’id didn’t bring us here just to pamper us with spa days or whatever.”</p><p>Nile utters a muted grunt of agreement, as they each select a bedroom, drop their bags on the floor, and Joe collapses onto the huge, soft white bed. He’s dog tired, but he’s once more finding it hard to peaceably drift off. Presumably they’ll learn more when Rustam returns this afternoon. Nicky can’t have gotten into too much trouble already, can he? Ya Allah, this is the worst.</p><p>Joe lies there in an unhappy haze, not quite awake and not quite asleep, until he is roused from a deeper reverie with a jolt. He scrubs at his face, grimaces, and gets up, padding toward the bathroom, when he notices Nile hunched over her phone, pounding away at the keys. He stops short. “Did Rustam come by with the SIM cards already?”</p><p>“No.” Nile answers distractedly, continuing to text at top speed. “I connected to the hotel internet and used WhatsApp. I got in touch with Dad. He’s fine, he’s back in London. He says it was just some old house up in Newcastle, he…”</p><p>“What?” Joe prompts, as patiently as he can. Nicky can sometimes possess a defter touch when it comes to the nuances of people’s tender feelings, but he just doesn’t understand this. He’s obviously deeply relieved that contact has been reestablished, but still. “Nile. Habibti. You <em>know </em>you can talk to us, right? Whatever secret you’re keeping, we can help.”</p><p>“I’m <em>trying.” </em>Nile looks up at him, sounding anguished. “I tried seeing if it worked over text message, and it didn’t. It’s killing me, it’s driving me crazy. You – he – both of you, it’s not just Sa’id who’s mixed up in this, it’s also – ”</p><p>This time when she stops, Joe frowns. There’s a certain amount of daughterly reticence to share too much private business with her parents, and then there’s outright malign magical interference. If Nile actually means she <em>can’t </em>talk, as in she’s been prohibited by powerful outside forces or curses – who? Why? Of course Joe’s mind leaps to the obvious culprit, but she just said it wasn’t Sa’id, and as far as he knows, she hasn’t yet seen Booker. He looks at her sharply. “Do you mean you literally <em>can’t? </em>Why?”</p><p>Obviously, if it was that simple, Nile would tell him why not, but her frantic nodding confirms that he’s on the right track. A whole new wave of worry falls over him, a fear that there is yet another shadowy antagonist that they have failed to account for. He can’t see any visible aura or binding threads around her mouth, but there’s always the creeping worry that he’s become so removed from the magical world that he would no longer be able to see it anyway. They stare at each other. Then Joe blows out a ragged breath. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says. “I need to think about this. Are you talking to Nicky now?”</p><p>“No.” Nile looks back at her phone. “Jordan – Jay.”</p><p>Joe has several other questions on that front, but now is not the time. “Okay. Have you eaten?”</p><p>“There’s some Red in my bag,” Nile says. “I’m not really sure what the Uzbek market is like in terms of blood replacements.”</p><p>“There’ll be animals somewhere, if we need them.” Joe musters up a reassuring smile. “Okay,” he says again. “I’ll be back in a bit.”</p><p>With that, he snags some clean clothes from his suitcase, though he doesn’t know what activities Rustam might be planning for them this afternoon. Then he goes into the bathroom, undresses, and turns the shower on to the highest setting. They have a golden sand bath at their house in Malta, but he’s gotten used to washing with water, provided that it’s hot enough to scorch the shell off a lobster. (This is why, romantic as it might be, Nicky can never shower with him; one of them is always displeased at the temperature.) Joe steps in, closes his eyes, and lets the steaming rivulets run down his body, imagining that they’re the fire hammam at his family’s old house in Cairo. If he had known that it was the last time he’d ever be there –</p><p>He scrubs, squeezes a palmful of travel-sized shampoo into his hand and lathers his curls, and tries to think how to tackle Nile’s present predicament. Of course, if he could just pop into the huge magical market that a place like Tashkent must have, he could buy some convenient curse-breaking item and dispose of it in two minutes, problem solved. Assuming that whatever is afflicting her is in fact magical and curse-based in nature. Who did this to her, and why? Is it a witch? This seems like something they could do, sewing up a secret in someone’s mouth so it could never be uttered without the caster’s permission, and if Andy was here, if she hadn’t left them, she could easily unravel it. Joe tries not to hold a grudge, he really does. If it was Nicky he lost in the same awful way she was ripped apart from Quynh, he’d be catatonic for the rest of eternity, and he can’t judge anyone for the way they deal with grief. But they’re still here. They still needed her. Nile still needed her. They would have been her family even so, if she stayed.</p><p>He rubs soap into nooks and crannies, drags his mind back to Nile, and has concluded absolutely nothing by the time he runs out of things to wash and the water is turning cooler. He switches it off and steps out into a world of billowing white steam, dries off, and changes into the fresh clothes. Then he exits the bathroom and hurries back to his room, grabbing his own phone and connecting it to the internet. He would very much like to hear Nicky’s voice right about now.</p><p>The WhatsApp call rings through, but Nicky doesn’t pick up. According to the status bar, he was last online two hours ago. That was when he texted Nile that he was back in London, since there’s a matching message to Joe. Not that Joe can be sure from some letters on a screen, but he thinks Nicky sounds frazzled. The text is in Italian, for one thing, which Nicky sometimes reverts to in moments of high stress or emotion, or when they are trying to ensure privacy in their communication. That doesn’t entirely match with his relatively matter-of-fact report about a spooky house in the north of England, which apparently he decided to run off to. Alone. At midnight. Because of course he did. Nicky can look like the most responsible and level-headed one out of the three of them, but that can also be entirely an illusion.</p><p>Joe puts the phone down, hoping that Rustam brings the SIM cards, because otherwise they’ll be disconnected again as soon as they leave the hotel, and he is not enjoying this fitful, stop-and-start, always-missing-the-other method of lobbing smoke bombs in the night. He hears the water run as Nile takes her turn in the shower – hopefully he’s left her some warm water, though her vampiric nature means she prefers it cooler anyway. When they’re both changed and ready to go, it’s almost two PM, and they go out front to wait. A few minutes later the Land Rover turns in, Rustam beckons them cheerily to climb in, and off they motor.</p><p>They roll down Navoi Avenue to what remains of Tashkent’s old town, where Rustam parks and they get out and walk. They pass Ko’kaldosh Madrasasi, a pretty sixteenth-century yellow brick mosque, decorated with elaborate blue faience on the iwan and windows, and Rustam, like an enthusiastic tour guide, tells them about Tashkent’s cabinet of ancient Islamic treasures. This includes one of the oldest copies of the Qur’an in the world, the Uthman Qur’an (also known as the Samarkand Kufic Qur’an), said to be stained with the blood of its namesake murdered caliph, son-in-law to the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh). Joe listens politely, though most of Rustam’s words wash over him. Then they turn into the Chorsu Bazaar, the huge market at the center of the old town, housed in a cavernous open-air steel warehouse and crowded with goods of every description – food, clothing, jewelry, books, furniture, knickknacks, knockoff designer brands, electronics, accessories, antiques, bootleg DVDs, Chinese porcelain, Russian nesting dolls, the modern legacy of this city’s proud old status as a capital of the Silk Road – and Joe stops dead.</p><p>Not despite all the goods and bustle and things to look at. He barely notices those. What he feels is the magic, which burns through him like a fire on a freezing night, like coming in from the cold after an endless desolation of wandering. It sizzles through him, searing him from head to toe. He starts to shake, and Nile looks at him worriedly. “Dad?”</p><p>“Do you feel that?” Joe manages. Maybe it’s not as extreme for her, blends into the normal background noise, since she was never deliberately cut off from it – but she was made with his blood, and his exile extends to her. “I haven’t – not for nine hundred years, not since – ”</p><p>He bites his tongue, since Rustam is a human and it’s unclear how much he knows about either Sa’id or Joe’s actual age, but their guide doesn’t appear to have noticed. He turns back and hands them each a large roll of so’m. “You are welcome to purchase a souvenir,” he says. “Compliments of Mr. Sa’id ibn al-Maḏhab.”</p><p>At that, Joe gets it. Whether or not Rustam is aware of what exactly is happening, this is the first step in the campaign to win them over, to prove how much they can gain if they just cooperate with Sa’id. His complete severance from the magical world has been lifted, at least for this afternoon and this visit to Chorsu Bazaar, so he can feel it again and fully remember everything he’s been missing. There must obviously, as he was just thinking back at the hotel, be magical merchants and supernatural creatures out the wazoo who do business here, and that includes jinn. There might be one of Joe’s people here, somewhere in the crowd, the first face of his own kind that he’s seen in centuries. He hates that this tiny little thing, this absolute crumb, has had such a profound effect, that it’s almost cracking all his angry resolve in half. He hasn’t had this in <em>so very long, </em>not even this much. Which djinn might it be? King Shamhurish of the Thousand Rivers ruled these lands, back when Joe knew anything about tribal politics. His sister Noor married a member of the tribe and lived in Samarkand. Wait. Is <em>Noor –</em></p><p>No, no. It can’t be, it wouldn’t be. Yet as he roams eagerly among the crowded aisles, Joe finds himself desperately searching for any hint of his sister. God, what would she even look like? He hasn’t seen her since her wedding day, a few years before the Franks came to Jerusalem on the First Crusade and his life proceeded to turn upside down. She was the third child, the girl between both sets of boys, younger than Muhammad and Ismail and older than him and Musa. Maryam always doted on her only daughter, and Noor was very much like their mother in her kind, clever nature and low tolerance for nonsense among her male relatives. Joe always liked her, even if he never played with her much; it was beneath the dignity of a Banu Zawba’ah princess to roll about in muddy alleys with her brothers, and Musa was always his companion in merrymaking and mischief. <em>At least until you cursed him for eternity. </em>Would she even know who he was, if she saw him? Sa’id said they were charged to forget that Joe had ever been born.</p><p>Joe spends almost an hour searching among the stalls and finding no jinn – at least none that reveal themselves to him – until his euphoria has crumpled back into bitter despair. Of course it was just a trick, a flitting illusion, like a sweet smell or a lovely vision that shimmered away, a mirage in the desert. Feel it, know it is there, but not be able to touch it or see it, go mad chasing it. Nile has dutifully bought herself something, but Joe lobs his cash at Rustam’s head like a cricket ball and bites his tongue on informing him to stuff it up Sa’id’s arse. He’s sour and sullen as they leave the market, pulling his useless phone out of his pocket and scanning for a public WiFi hotspot, but those don’t really exist in Uzbekistan just yet. “Did you get the SIM cards?”</p><p>“I have called for them, I hope they will be soon.” Rustam looks at him, and his smile fades. “Mr. al-Kaysani, are you all right?”</p><p>Joe turns away. In fact he’s furious all over again, but entirely at Sa’id, and their hapless human fixer, who is just trying to help them have a nice visit to his country, isn’t a justified target for his bitterness. “I’m sorry. It was very nice. Are we done?”</p><p>“There is a few more places and dinner I will take you to,” Rustam says. “Then after that, when it is a little later, we are to go to Alisher Navoi Metro station. It is a trip for you to take.”</p><p>Joe doesn’t want to run anywhere else on Sa’id’s bidding, today or ever again, and he’s this close to calling Nicky up and asking him to tell Booker that the deal’s off, he doesn’t care what Merrick Pharmaceuticals is doing, he doesn’t give a damn. But this isn’t true, and Joe is angry, but he <em>does </em>care, he does give too many damns for anyone’s good and especially his, and even as raw and wounded as he is right now, he still can’t put his own bruised feelings over the lives of innocents. If there are people they need to help, he will do that. <em>Then </em>he will finally murder Sa’id with exquisite and absolute thoroughness.</p><p>He doesn’t pay attention for the rest of their grand tour around Tashkent, doesn’t taste the food at the nice café where Rustam takes them for dinner, keeps looking for internet, keeps feeling worse. Nile looks at him worriedly – the shoes are on the other feet when it comes to one of them wanting the other to talk to them – but Joe just can’t muster the strength, especially in front of their guide. They take a long time at dinner, as the city slowly empties after rush hour, and after a suitably tasty dessert, they step out into the summer twilight. Golden streetlamps burn beautifully across the thick blue dusk, and Joe wants to cry. Is this the only reason Sa’id brought him here? To torture him? To torture Nicky?</p><p>Rather than retrieving the Land Rover, Rustam beckons them to follow him on foot, toward – as he said, though Joe can’t think why – Alisher Navoi Metro station. The entrance is unprepossessing, plain concrete and fluorescent lights, but the inside is a revelation. Tashkent’s Metro system is among the most beautiful in the world. The stations used to be classified as top-secret installations, shelter for the populace in the event of an American nuclear strike on the USSR, and a blanket ban on photography has only just been lifted. The stations sport intricate murals, plaster reliefs, high arches, mirrored walls, candled chandeliers, gilded ceilings, glazed tiles, images of square-jawed and striving Soviet comrades with the hammers and sickles now chiseled off, and this station, named for a prominent Uzbek intellectual and literary hero, resembles the interior of a mosque. A huge gilded screen hangs above the escalators as they descend, the arched white ceilings are decorated with golden script, and a painted porcelain bas relief of the celebrated poet gazes down serenely at them from a wall. Despite himself, Joe looks around, distracted from his misery. “What’s this?”</p><p>“A train is coming,” Rustam says. “You and your daughter, you are to get on it.”</p><p>Presumably that is the point of going to a train station, though Joe suddenly wonders where the hell they’re actually supposed to go. He eyes their guide suspiciously, ready to grab Nile and make a break for it, but something holds him in place. In a few more minutes, he hears a crashing, screeching roar from the subway tunnel, and an old-fashioned Moscow Metro-style blue car comes rolling up to the platform. It’s empty of any other people; it’s past the commuter crunch, but still not that late, and this is surprising. The door opens.</p><p>Nile and Joe look at each other. Joe says to Rustam, “Are you coming?”</p><p>“This is for you.” Rustam beckons again. “Please. You will want to go.”</p><p>God Almighty, how Joe wants to be done with this, with being strung along and then having his hopes crushed again, the way Sa’id has somehow found to keep hurting him even from afar. He wants to turn on his heel and storm out. Go back to London. Go back to Nicky. Finally separate himself, once and for all, from <em>trying. </em>He’s earned that right. More than earned it.</p><p>Instead, cursing under his breath in a rich array of languages, Joe gets on.</p><p>Nile follows him, and they perch on the shabby seats nervously, not sure what to expect. Rustam waves at them through the window as the door rolls shut, and the train car starts to move. Joe and Nile grab hold of each other’s hands as they leave the platform and enter the dark tunnel on the far side. The car picks up speed, squealing along the tracks, taking the turns with such vehemence that Joe briefly fears being derailed. It isn’t clear if there’s a human driver, but he doesn’t think so. They’re going somewhere that’s not just the next station on the line, passing through some kind of veil – Nile was supposed to come since she also has djinni blood, which might mean she too can cross over. So where on earth (or otherwise) is this going to end up?</p><p>Just as he’s wondering how long the journey is going to take, he can feel them decelerating. Then there’s a glow up ahead, and they pull up to a small underground platform, lit with old-fashioned salver lamps. There’s likewise nobody else here, and once more, he can feel it. Magic.</p><p>Joe and Nile look at each other again, then get to their feet, leave the car, and step out onto the platform, heading for the stairs on the far side. Joe can feel a soft late-evening breeze on his face, air that is slightly crisper and colder than what they left in Tashkent, and almost runs to the top of the stairs. He takes them two at a time, reaches the top, steps outside, and –</p><p>He stops so short that Nile runs into him from behind, and they take a few undignified staggering steps. Then, eyes wide, Nile whispers, “Where <em>are </em>we?”</p><p>It’s as beautiful and unearthly as any magical place Joe has ever been. They stand in a huge open-air square, framed to three sides by intricate and ornate old mosques. The moon is just rising over the blue dome on the far side, the stars peering through thin wisps of cloud, and the mosques are lit up with golden light. A few trees are planted in the broad courtyard, and standing under one of them is a small dark figure. A person. Waiting.</p><p>“This is – ” Nile gapes. “Is this Uzbekistan?”</p><p>“Yes.” Joe’s throat is dry as chalk. “This is the Registan, the ancient central plaza of Samarkand. Those are the three madrasahs –  Ulugh Beg, Tilya-Kori, and Sher-Dor. This means – ”</p><p>He looks back at the person, who has just spotted them emerging from underground, from the station where there has never been a station before. And with that –</p><p>Another bolt of lightning goes through Joe. He starts to walk, slowly and then faster, almost stumbling, as a deeply confused Nile hurries at the rear. The figure – the woman – catches sight of his face in the light and runs faster. He can hear her gasping in disbelief, he’s doing the same, and the next instant, as they hit each other so hard that they reel in a circle, knock each other off balance, step on each other’s feet, and almost fall over with the force of their collision, his sister is hugging him so hard that he cannot breathe and does not care.</p><p>The next several minutes pass in a confused jumble of sobbing, gasping, half-spoken scraps of sentences – “Yusuf, Yusuf, Yusuf, is that you?” Noor demands, and she’s speaking Daevic, which Joe has not heard from anyone, much less his own family, in – well, you know how long. “Is it really you? Is it really you?”</p><p>“Is it really you?” Joe can only stammer in return, crying too hard to get anything else out. He’s still clutching her, as if she might disappear if he lets go, and hasn’t even been able to get a proper look at her. The horrible thought crosses his mind that this isn’t his sister at all, but some cunningly disguised impostor sent to pull his heartstrings. But he knows, he <em>knows </em>it’s not, his magic and his heart and his blood and everything else knows that it’s her, she’s here, she must have been ordered to make her way to Registan tonight for some mysterious purpose, but it’s clear that she never in her wildest dreams expected to see him, her banished baby brother, lost to the family for all time as surely as Musa. “Noor – <em>Subhanallah, Subhanallah – </em>it’s you? It’s you?”</p><p>“Yes, Yusuf, yes, it’s me.” When they can finally relax their stranglehold grip on each other’s shoulders, though they remain clutching hands hard enough to bend bone, Noor takes a step back and stares at him hungrily, as Joe does the same. She looks – well, more or less like he remembers, jinn age slowly, and she’s not that much older than him. She’s wearing a black hijab trimmed in silver, an ivory silk blouse and stylish high-waisted trousers, lipstick and eyeliner and dangly earrings, looking as beautiful and immaculately put together as always. “Yusuf, my God, it’s been a long time.”</p><p>Since this is the completest of understatements, and he’s still too shocked to do anything but laugh weakly, that is what he does. Noor grabs him in a head-wrenching hug again, they rock back and forth and step on each other’s feet and elbow each other in the gut some more, and it’s messy and stupid and goofy and the most wonderful thing Joe can possibly imagine. It’s only after that when he remembers that they have company, and embarrassedly turns around. “Noor, I need to introduce you to someone. This is – this is your niece, my daughter, Nile. Nile, this is my – ” He laughs and almost cries again. “This is my sister, Noor al-Kaysani. You didn’t meet her last time, but you slept in her old room at my mother’s house.”</p><p>“Hello,” Nile says, staring at her glamorous djinni aunt. She steps forward and timidly offers her hand for a shake, but Noor seizes her in an equally ferocious hug. When they break apart, a somewhat squashed-sounding Nile squeaks, “It’s nice to meet you too.”</p><p>“What are you – ” Noor thumbs away a glittering tear. “What are you <em>doing </em>here? Are you home, Yusuf? Are you back? Have you seen Mama?”</p><p>The mention of Maryam goes through Joe’s heart like a spear. “She’s alive?”</p><p>“Yes.” Noor sniffs. “She lives in Tunis now, the family had to leave Cairo when Bonaparte invaded, but she’s alive. She’s never given up on you, Yusuf. She never allowed any of us to forget about you or think that you were dead. All this time, she – does she know?”</p><p>“No.” Some of Joe’s teary delight trickles out of him, replaced by a distant dread, as he stares at his sister’s desperate, imploring face, lit by the stars and the moon and the golden light of the mosques. “You might imagine it’s a long story. Is there somewhere we could sit down?”</p><p>Noor leads them to a bench in the imposing shadow of the mosques, and the three of them sit down together. No sooner have they done so when she seizes his left hand and scrutinizes the wedding ring. “Where’s your husband, Yusuf?”</p><p>“You – ” Joe stares at his sister, sputtering a little. He never actually <em>told </em>her about the true nature of his relationship with Sa’id, and since his family has been cut off from all news of him, it’s not as if they could have happened to hear the gossip on the street. “I notice you didn’t even start with asking if it was my wife?”</p><p>Noor makes a rude noise. “Please. I know you better than that. So where?”</p><p>“London.” Joe pauses. “His name is Nicolò di Genova, but he goes by Nicky these days. I love him very much. He’s – ” He wonders if he should say this even in the euphoric glow of their reunion, but it’s not like Maryam and his older brothers didn’t know about Nicky, and Nile is sitting right there. “He’s a vampire, but I don’t care about that. We’ve been together since I was banished, we’re mated, he and Nile have kept me sane all these centuries. I wish you could meet him.”</p><p>“We’ll find a way,” Noor promises, squeezing his hand again. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m getting the sense that you aren’t back for good?”</p><p>“No.” Joe stares at the elaborate façade of the mosque on the far side. With that, he finds the entire story spilling out of him as if a dam has been broken. There’s no way to fully cover nine hundred years, but he does his best, plowing up to the present day and the circumstances which have landed him here in Registan with her, the way Sa’id has dangled the prospect of finally ending his exile if Joe, Nicky, and Nile do something about whatever nefarious plot might be afoot at Merrick Pharmaceuticals. “I don’t trust him further than I can throw him,” Joe finishes, breathless and gulping. “I wish I could just tell him to go fuck himself. But I couldn’t – I hate that I couldn’t do that. I miss you all so much. I miss <em>magic </em>so much.”</p><p>Noor sniffs. She’s listened without interrupting, her hand tightening on his at the more emotional parts. Finally she says, “Is that why Sa’id sent you here? Just to see me and learn that your family was alive, that you could <em>have </em>them again if you finally came home?”</p><p>“I – I suppose?” Joe sniffs too, swallowing hard; he doesn’t want to cry again. “So… should I?”</p><p>“I can’t make that decision for you.” Noor looks at him, her eyes soft and sad and dark as endless oceans. “It’s been nine hundred years, Yusuf. I’m sure it’s nothing like what you remember.”</p><p>“I don’t care. I know it’s changed, and I can’t go back to whatever memory I have.” Joe glances at Nile, who has also mostly been sitting and listening, chipping in a few parts of the story at times. “But the memory is all I have now. I want to know what it’s like, what’s real. Our family – ?”</p><p>Noor sighs deeply, and tells him what she knows. Joe’s father Umar is dead – they were never that close, but it’s still something of a shock – and so is his brother Ismail. Muhammad is the only surviving al-Kaysani son in the jinn world; he and his wife have four children and live in Morocco. Maryam, as Noor said, is in Tunis. They never did find Musa. As for his fearsome great-grandfather, nobody has seen King Zawba’ah in several centuries. They don’t <em>think</em> he’s dead, because the death of one of the Seven Jinn Kings is a major event that never goes unnoticed, but he seems to have gone into dormition, removed from the world or even members of his own tribe. On that note, King Shamhurish also died long ago, and Noor’s husband is a minister to his son, the new king of the Banu Shamhurish. “There is some argument over whether the jinn should modernize our government,” she says dryly. “Form a parliament, elect a prime minister or president, be democratically accountable to our people like the humans are – some of the time, at least. But the final say belongs to Sa’id, who is High King of the Jinn after the Golden One’s death – you know that, as you said – and he hasn’t done much. A few cosmetic reforms like the Saudi royals, but nothing amounting to real change.”</p><p>“I imagine he likes controlling us all too much to give that up.” Joe’s mouth tightens. “Especially me. If he handed over his power, someone else might vote to bring me back, and I would tell everyone what he did. Then they would turn on him, discover everything he did and has done, and he would fall from grace, lose his position and his money and the unwavering respect and awe he’s always had from everyone. And the literal golden boy can’t have that.”</p><p>Noor looks at him, her face troubled. Joe doesn’t want to think he’s the <em>only </em>reason that the jinn are stuck in the twelfth century under the rule of autocratic kings, but it’s true that his return to their world presents a considerable image problem for Sa’id. No wonder he’s trying to manage it carefully, offered against his own wishes and in drips and drabs, honey with one hand and vinegar with the other, demonstrating the joys of obedience and the terrible consequences of defiance. By now the sky is a soft velvety black, studded with stars, and there’s still nobody else in the square except for the three of them. There must be a spell keeping the humans out tonight, so the jinn can gather in private. Finally Noor looks around and says softly, “If you’re <em>here, </em>are you going to take back the Ring of Sulaiman?”</p><p>Both Joe and Nile shudder at hearing it spoken out loud. The thought must have crossed Nile’s mind as much as it has his; it couldn’t really do otherwise. The terrible truth is that he doesn’t know. He isn’t sure he has the strength to turn away what might be his only chance one more time. And if Nicky and Nile are in danger, Joe’s sure as hell not going to high-mindedly reject anything that would keep them safe. He’s not that brave. He can’t lose them. He’ll do whatever he has to. He just hopes it doesn’t come at the cost of his own soul.</p><p>He looks at Nile. Nile looks at him. Nile says, “We have to see.”</p><p>Noor can sense this is something which she shouldn’t push, so she doesn’t. They keep talking, trying to cram as much as they can into a few short hours, as the moon climbs higher and then begins to descend, vanishing behind the dark buildings of Samarkand. Joe can feel their time growing short, dwindling down like sand in an hourglass, running through his fingers even faster the more he tries to clutch at them. He can feel the ache in his chest as he looks at Noor and knows that very soon, yet again, she will not be there. Nile has told her aunt about her life, Noor promises to convey every word of this to Maryam as soon as she has the chance, and the world is turning soft grey and rose pink when Noor rubs her eyes and gets to her feet. “The spell keeping the humans away is about to break. It’s time to send you back to Tashkent.”</p><p>Joe almost says that he won’t go, he wants to stay – if Sa’id wants to throw him out again, he can come here him-fucking-self and do it with his bare hands, there’s nothing that could technically <em>stop </em>Joe from remaining where he is. Even if that means his exile would still be enforced in another way, at least he wouldn’t have simply walked away again. But there <em>is </em>the obvious reason that he has to go back, and why, as he and Noor turn to each other, Joe knows with a sinking feeling that Sa’id, damn his eyes, has won. Because how can he look at his sister standing right here, real and solid, able to be touched and elbowed and joked and held and cried and snarked with, her face bright with hope that that this is the last time they have to leave without being assured of a reunion, and not do everything in his power to achieve just that? How could he walk away and let that be that, to give up trying, to act like it didn’t matter? How can he know that his mother is alive, that all these centuries she has been waiting for him to come back, refusing to let the others forget him no matter what Sa’id decreed, and not repay her faith? How can he let this be the last moment they have? How can he manage it if Noor never meets Nicky? He can’t. It’s that simple, and it bedevils Joe intensely, but it’s so.</p><p>He and Noor hug as many times as they can, Nile hugs her too, and she hurries with them to the steps that lead down into the train station, that will vanish behind them as soon as they’re gone and leave Noor alone in the rising sun, in the splendid quiet of Registan, as they are once more another world away. “Come back,” she says, as Joe clings to her one last time at the top of the stairs. “Come back, Yusuf. We love you. We love you so much.”</p><p>“I love you too.” It scrapes raw in his throat, even as he can feel the urgency. They have to go, the barrier between them is rising again, her outline already seems less distinct, and he knows that when he looks back, she will be gone. “I love you all. I’ve never stopped.”</p><p>Noor kisses her palm and waves at them, smiling and crying. Then Joe turns his back, senses that there’s a brick wall behind him now, and he and Nile descend into the station, step aboard the train car, and sit in silence as it pulls away from the platform and rattles into the tunnel – whisking them back to Tashkent, two hundred miles away, in the span of a few minutes. Joe sits with his eyes closed, leaning his head against the wall, his heart raw and trembling and too big for his chest, about to shatter into too many pieces.</p><p>He and Nile don’t talk, as their car bumps up against the coupler of another one, they can see a throng of ordinary commuters inside it, and when the door opens into the bustling Alisher Navoi station, people stream out as usual, none the wiser that they have just returned from a magical journey. Joe and Nile exit the station into the morning sunlight; it’s not a long walk to the hotel, and Rustam has obviously not waited all night for them to return, so they head back on foot, watching the city wake up around them. Finally Nile says, “Did that really happen?”</p><p>“I think so.” Joe rubs his tired eyes. “I remember it, at least. Do you?”</p><p>Nile gives him a tremulous smile, lips quivering. “Yeah. Me too.”</p><p>Joe puts an arm silently around her shoulders, and they trudge up the drive and into the hotel, looking like a pair of vagabonds. As soon as his phone is once more connected to the internet, Joe scours it for any new message from Nicky. Nothing. It’s not completely worrisome – they don’t need to telegraph every single movement or development to each other all the time, and if Nicky was also in need of sleep after his odyssey to Newcastle, especially since it’s five hours earlier in London, there’s no reason for him to be awake. It’s fine. Probably.</p><p>Nonetheless, Joe thumbs out a quick message – <em>call me when you see this, I have a lot to tell you, love you – </em>and physically can’t stay awake long enough to wait for an answer. It’s been he doesn’t remember how long since he properly slept, the emotional exhaustion is dragging his eyes shut, and he can’t maintain consciousness in any kind of organized state. He goes into his room, shuts the curtains, falls onto the bed, and is out before he can even change his clothes.</p><p>Joe sleeps for what feels like forever, though it’s probably only four or five hours. When he finally does wake, his brain refuses to boot up, floating in a distant dark haze like molasses that is only broken by the sound of insistent knocking on the door. “Whungh?” he mutters. “Whuzit?”</p><p>“Dad?” It’s Nile. “Dad, are you awake?”</p><p>She sounds scared. Scared in the kind of way that makes him wrench upright, the last shreds of sleepiness falling away like broken glass. She’s clutching her phone, and –</p><p>“What?” Joe demands. <em>“What?”</em></p><p>Nile’s face is ashen. “I think something’s happened to Nicky.”</p>
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